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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



POEMS BY HENRY LYNDEN FLASH 




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POEMS 



By 



HENRY LYNDEN FLASH 



New York and Washington 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1906 



LIBRftRYotCONfHESS 
Two Cooies necei'/ed 

MAY. 7 1906 

<|i-Xoi;:/ri;;.M Entry 
CLAS57/2; .VAC, No. 






Copyright, 1906, by 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



To 
MY WIFE 



CONTENTS 

Together ^5 

Love and Wrong i6 

What She Brought Me i? 

Behind the Pall I9 

The Mocking-Bird 21 

The Problem of Life 22 

Dead ^4 

The Duke of the Old Regime 27 

Wine 29 

The Lord's Forget-me-not 31 

Crazed 32 

Maud and I 33 

The Old Story 35 

Betrayed 3° 

At the Theatre 37 

In the Moonlight 39 

At Paris (1847) 40 

Insatiate • • • 4i 

Three Violets 42 

On a Tress of Hair 44 

To 46 

Love 47 

Our Parting 49 

The Conqueror 5° 

Who Can Tell 5i 

In the Grove 52 

Curst and Blest 54 

Compensation 5^ 

A Fact 57 

Adele 5^ 

To Italy 59 



The Scientists 60 

What the Cricket Sang 62 

The Maid I Love 64 

Come Fill the Goblet— Song 66 

The Shadows in the Valley 68 

The Count's Wedding 70 

Pauline 7^ 

The Paradise of Abou Shayone 72 

Who Knows 74 

M. E. M 76 

The Way of it JJ 

The Lady of the Land 78 

To Melanie (written in an album) 80 

Three Young Men 81 

Yes, Wait 82 

After Dinner 84 

Song : To 86 

Oh What Care I 87 

Doubt 88 

Nature's Way 89 

A Question 90 

'65 and '78 93 

Sailed 96 

Haunted 97 

The Gospel of Beauty 98 

Japan Lilies 100 

The King's Whim loi 

What Happened 103 

My Friend 105 

Lovers 107 

Wedded 108 

The Picture 109 

Damned no 

(8) 



Lost and Won 112 

The Ring 113 

The Return 114 

Oh ! Fairer than the Lily 116 

Retrospection 117 

Love's Artifice 119 

Little Clara 120 

Tell-tale 122 

At Galveston ( 1865) 124 

Life Prisoners 127 

Murder Done (Nicaragua) 128 

A Song that has no Ending 129 

To 130 

Perhaps 131 

Hate 132 

Victory 134 

The Lily of Monte Rey 135 

The Beaten Track 136 

Why Not ! 137 

Anonyma 138 

The Flag 139 

That's All 140 

Poems relating to the war with Spain — 

Are We Going to Fight ? 141 

Old Glory 143 

Yes or No 145 

At Last 146 

"Fighting Joe" Wheeler 147 

Poems relating to the Confederacy — 

The Lone Star Flag 149 

Stonewall Jackson 150 

(9) 



In Camp 151 

The Extortioner 153 

Zollicoffer 154 

After Chicamauga 155 

Polk 156 

Our Ship 157 

The Confederate Flag 158 

Memories of the Blue and Gray 159 

•The Confederate Cross of Honor 161 



(10) 



[copy.] 
Ne:w York, July 20th, ipo^. 
Col. Harry L. Flash. 

My dear friend : I have read with great pleas- 
ure the book of poems you are about to issue and 
which you have been kind enough to submit to 
my inspection. It is hard for me to reaHze that 
the enthusiastic young man who figured on my 
staff as a strenuous soldier of the Confederacy is 
now, like myself, passing the evening of life in a 
land much like that of his early days, where the 
oranges and magnolias and cypress and myrtle 
help to make life gracious and poetic. In your 
forthcoming volume appear many of the poems 
which you wrote as a mere boy and which made 
you a favorite poet of the South, and many of 
which received the cordial recognition of all sec- 
tions. It must be a great delight to you that 
some of your efforts, almost before you reached 
man's estate, received the praise of men like 
N. P. Willis and General Morris in their famous 
''Home Journal." 

My occupations have been those of business 
and practical affairs rather than to have to do 
with the strophes, iambics, and other machinery so 
familiar to you gentlemen of the poetical guild. 
But as many a man who knows nothing of music 
can enjoy an oratorio of Handel or an opera of 

(II) 



Wagner, I can say with truth that I have had 
much pleasure in reading your verse in all 
periods of your career. It is universally admit- 
ted that your genius is typical of the South. By 
education and travel you have greatly expanded 
natural advantages of a high order and tempera- 
ment distinctly poetical, thus insuring a polish to 
your verse which is one of its most pleasing char- 
acteristics. Melodious and flexible, your lines 
are brightened with various and attractive excel- 
lence, amongst which sensibility and wit hold 
high places. In many of your poems, as was to 
be expected of an ardent son of the South, you 
have reached the grand diapason, as where you 
sing of the "Confederate Flag," of the dead Zol- 
licoffer, and the grand lamented Leonidas Polk. 
During the war, these and like verses made you 
a great favorite with the Southern people. I 
have been much pleased to see that you, like 
many others of our bravest and best Confederate 
soldiers, have known how to assimilate yourself 
to the changed conditions following upon the 
war. You have known how to sound the praises 
of magnanimity of Grant as well as to acclaim the 
grandeur of Lee. Your song of "The Flag" in 
which you honor "Old Glory," under which we 
are now all happily and contentedly gathered, is 
a fitting corollary, under the circumstances, to 
your verses dedicated to the "Confederate Flag." 
In your poem commemorative of the generosity 
of the North in the yellow fever epidemic at New 
Orleans, in 1878, you express the new sentiments 
of the South toward the North with epic earn- 

(12) 



estness and success. That notable incident 
marked the creation of the new and fraternal re- 
lations between the long estranged sections, 
which was emphasized by the promptness with 
which Southerners rallied to the standard of the 
country during the Spanish War, in which you 
offered your sword and service and gave your 
pen to the cause of freedom and solidarity of the 
nation. I will here again express my regrets, as 
I did at the time, that the Army Regulations pre- 
vented my accepting your tendered services as 
my aid in that struggle. It would have been 
very pleasing to have seen you in a ripe old age 
leading in battle, as you did in the fresh buoy- 
ance of youth. It was an impressive spectacle 
pregnant of great things for the future of the 
United States, this spontaneous gathering of the 
best blood of the South under the inspiring Stars 
and Stripes. I have particularly relished your 
"Memories of the Blue and the Gray," the fifth 
stanza of which commends itself to my apprecia- 
tion, as it will be the appreciation of all your 
countrymen who value noble thoughts nobly ex- 
pressed. It can be truly said by your friends 
that you have done your devoir in binding anew 
the relations which so long existed between the 
States and which for a while were threatened 
with disintegration. 

While the sensational period in which you 
lived and wrote, to a certain extent has naturally 
sectionalized a portion of your verses, I strain 
nothing in saying that the volume you are about 
to issue will add much to the stock of genuine 

(13) 



American poetry. Your facile mastery of verse, 
its verve and epigrammatic measures, do not ob- 
scure, but add to its soulfulness and inspiration. 
The volume will not contain a poem of length, a 
restraint which you have imposed upon yourself, 
which is rather surprising to your friends, who 
would have been pleased to see you distinguish 
yourself in some lyrical or epic way which would 
have run a single poem into a volume of itself. 
They feel that you have the genius which would 
have insured success. 

But your book will be replete with downright 
masterpieces and many gems of purest ray se- 
rene. Amongst those I would place "Together," 
which has been much in the public eye, and 
which originally appeared in the NeziJ Orleans 
Times-Democrat. It pleases me to see again my 
old favorite. I will not attempt to particularize 
your work in detail, but I can cheerfully tell the 
public that there is much in it which is rich and 
rare and that the very air of Parnassus blows 
through its pages. 

The book, I trust, will find favor with the gen- 
eral public, and especially with the "Confederate 
Veterans" and the "Daughters and Sons of the 
Confederacy." Your poem on the "Confederate 
Cross of Honor" cannot fail to touch a respon- 
sive chord in the hearts of those who wore the 
Gray, and be read with tears by their descend- 
ants. 

Wishing you the success you richly merit, 
Faithfully your friend, 

Joseph Wheeler. 



(14) 



POEMS BY 
HENRY LYNDEN FLASH 



We loved each other long and true, 

And at last in April weather, 
When the crocus buds were breaking through, 
And the dying moon hung faint in the blue, 

We put to sea together. 

For years we sailed a sunny main 

And then came stormy weather; 
Our vessel groaned with the tug and strain, 
And out in the shrieking wind and rain 
We faced the gale together. 

At times we caught a glimpse of sky 

That promised clearing weather, 
And light and swift our boat would fly. 
Till the clouds resumed their sable dye 

And we sat in the gloom together. 

But whether the sky was dark or bright. 

Or fair or foul the weather. 
Our love was ever the beacon light 
That cheered our souls in the darkest night 

And held our hearts together. 

And now we sail in our battered boat 

Unmindful of the weather. 
The winds may rave and the clouds may gloat, 
But little we care if we sink or float. 

So we sink or float together. 

(15) 



A scoffed-at prayer — the flit of a dress — 
The glance of a frenzied eye — 

A sullen splash, and the moon shone out, 
And the stream went muttering by. 

And never again will I walk by the moon 
Through the oaks and chestnuts high, 

For fear to see the flit of a dress 
And the glance of a frenzied eye. 

And some may laugh and some may weep. 

But as for me, I pray, 
For I know that a tale of love and wrong 

Will be told on the Judgment Day. 



(i6) 



This faded flower that you see 
Was given me a year ago, 

By one whose little, dainty hand 
Is whiter than the snow. 



Her eyes are blue as violets, 

And she's a blonde, and very fair, 

And sunset tints are not bright 
As is her golden hair. 

And there are roses in her cheeks. 
That come and go like living things ; 

Her voice is softer than the brook's 
That flows from hidden springs. 

She gave it me with downcast eyes 
And rosy flushes of the cheek, 

That told of tender thoughts her tongue 
Had never learned to speak. 

The fitting words had just been said, 
And she was mine as long as life ; 

I gently laid the flower aside 
And kissed my blushing wife. 

2 (17) 



She took it up with earnest look, 
And said, "Oh, prize the flower" — 

And tender tears were in her eyes — 
"It is my only dower." 

She brought me Faith, and Hope, and Truth, 
She brought me gentle thoughts, and love — 

A soul as pure as those that float 
Around the throne above. 

But earthly thing she nothing had, 
Except this faded flower you see; 

And though 'tis worthless in your eyes, 
'Tis very dear to me. 



(i8) 



SFtfttt!) ti^e Pall 

'Tis wondrous strange — it looks as dead, 

And yet I feel no fear ; 
My body lies upon the bed, 

And I am standing here 
With all my faculties complete — 

A perfect man from the crown of my head 
To the very soles of my feet. 

Dead ! dead ! what an earthly word ! 

Ah ! now I see it all ! 
I was wont to laugh at the truths I heard 

Of the life behind the pall : 
Of the death-in-life and the Hfe-in-death — 
And held that the ceasing of the breath 

Was the dismal end of all. 

But I have fled from what is dead, 
And will warm the clay no more. 

That lies so senseless on the bed, 
Deaf to those who deplore 

The absence of the living ray 

That saved the body from decay, 
And held the worms in awe. 

But what will my darling say to this 
When she hears I have passed away, 

(19) 



And knows the lips she was wont to kiss 

Are pallid curves of clay? 
Will she die for the want of the olden bliss, 

Or live for the heart's decay? 

My only wish is to see her now — 

Great Heaven ! and can it be ! 
That she lies with her curl-lit brow, 

Dreaming- a dream of me ; 
Dreaming a dream of the man that stands 

Here by her side to-night ; 
And kisses the white of her heavenly hands, 

And her eyelids veiling light. 

Ah ! now I know that I will go 

Where my true affections are, 
And what I love below or above 

Will be my guiding star ! 
And the light that I see cometh to me 

Undimmed by the clay which lies 
Stiff and stark and growing dark 

In the glow of the tropic skies. 

Oh ! the narrow space I was compassed in. 

Chained to a lump of earth, 
And darkened by clouds of grief and sin 

From the moment of my birth ; 
But I am free as thought can be. 

And am where my wishes are — 
And pure and bright with the lucent light 

That flows from the Lord afar, 
Making me shine with rays divine 

Eternity cannot mar. 

(20) 



The mocking-bird skips like a winged Faun, 

A-top of the China-tree; 
And mimics love and mimics fear, 

And mocketh ever at me. 

He speaks to my ear in the dove-like tones 

I loved in the days gone by, 
When all the sorrow my heart could hold 

Came forth in a single sigh — 

And I feel the touch of my darling's hand, 
Her breath on my happy cheek — 

The bird stops short and quirks him round, 
And giveth a piercing shriek, 

That tells a tale of a foundered ship 
And all on board gone down — 

Leaving one lover bearing a cross. 
The other wearing a crown, 

O heartless bird, that skips and sings 

A-top of the China-tree, 
What have I done to thee or thine, 

That thou mocketh so at me? 



(21) 



I sit here to-night in my bachelor room, 

Sick of the world with its care and its strife, 

Striving to find through the desolate gloom 
The key to the intricate Problem of Life. 

I know there are answers to all we would ask, 
If God in His mercy should deign to reply ; 

That off from Philosophy tumbles the mask 
And leaves us, alone with our doubtings, to die. 

So scorning the riddles that weary my brain 
I puff at my pipe and I quaff at the bowl. 

Till the joys that are dead are requickened again 
And glow in the Hades-like deeps of my soul. 

The women I've loved and the pleasures I've 
known 
Pass by in procession and gladden my sight. 
Till exultant, I feel I'm no longer alone 

With the riddles that hide in the gloom of the 
night. 

There's Music and Dancing, there Wit and there 
Wine — 
The songs of the Poet — the Idols of Art — 
There are starlighted nights upon Arno and 
Rhine 
And a blaze of bright eyes to illumine my 
heart. 



(22) 



There's Minnie and Carrie and Rosa and Lou 
And Esmeralda (not she with the golden- 
horned Goat) 

And Edith, with eyes of the very same hue 
As the one little violet pinned at her throat. 

But look ! there is one who is dearer than all ! 

She beams on my soul like a star on the sea — 
She is gone! The darkness comes down like a 
pall, 
And hides her, forever, from earth and from 
me. 

The music is hushed and the phantoms have fled, 
In silence and sorrow I sit in my room, 

I am pressed to the earth by a hope that is dead, 
And sink to my knees in the desolate gloom. 

Oh, Lord ! lift the burden that crushes me down. 
Restore to my spirit the love which was mine ! 

I trust to Thy promise, I bow to Thy frown, 
And patiently wait at the foot of Thy shrine. 

Oh ! blessed is the sorrow and blessed is the loss 

That racks the proud heart in its Sybarite ease, 

And a thousand times blessed is the weight of the 

Cross 

That brings us, O Brothers! at last to our 

knees. 

As I sit here to-night in my bachelor room. 
Sick of the world with its care and its strife, 

This truth comes to me through the desolate 
gloom. 
That faith is the key to the Problem of Life. 

(23) 



I am lying- in my shroud, 
Dead! 

So they say; 

And they pray 
Round my bed. 
And they weep and wail aloud, 
For they little think that I, 
All stiffened as I lie, 
Have a power and a vision 
That I never knew before. 
Though my limbs are cold and rigid. 

And my heart will beat no more. 
Yet my spirit sees a demon 

That it never saw before. 

Do you see that woman sitting 
Near my bed, 

Watching through the night 
By the dead ? 
The taper's misty light 

Shows a forehead broad and fair, 
Partly shadowed by the darkness 

Of her cloudy mass of hair. 
She looks pure, and sweet, and holy 

As the moon up in the sky, 
But her heart is cold as marble. 

And her looks are all a lie; 
And this woman that I worshipped 

Is an animated lie. 

(24) 



I died but yesternight! 
But my spirit in its flight 
Has seen the varied wonders 
Of the sky and of the air, 
It has been among the stars, 
In Venus and in Mars, 
And has seen the angels fair 
That are singing in their Hght; 
But the woman that I cherished, 
By whose treachery I perished, 
With the fairest of their numbers 
Could compare. 

Oh ! 'tis well the dead are palsied — 

Else my heart, 
Inflated with the flood 
Of my injured body's blood, 

Would break apart. 

For she twined her arms around me, 
And she pressed her lips to mine. 

And she prayed that I should pledge her 
In a golden cup of wine — 

And she placed a deadly poison 
In this very cup of wine. 

And to think my latest breath. 
Ere it passed away with Death, 
Breathed a blessing on her head ! 
I kissed her lying lips. 
And passed into eclipse, 
For the shadow of the world 
Hides my spirit from her sight. 

(25) 



But the dead, 
In the silence of the night, 
Though they He in shrouds of white, 
Can in spirit form depart, 
And in ghostly garb revisit 
Those on earth they cherished well; 
And pry with phantom eyes 
Into mysteries 

That are hidden in the heart, — 
That doth make a burning hell 
Of the wicked human heart, — 
And though her face is mild and sweet, 
I can see the scorching heat 
That is withering up her heart. 

Oh! beware the injured dead. 
For their power has not fled ! 
They can break into the heart. 
And with shadowy fingers part 
The strands on which are strung, 
Like beads, your hopes and fears ; 
And the hopes they trample down, 
But the fears they leave to drown 
Your hated life in tears. 
And when in Death's deep slumber 
You go to join their number, 
Your frightened ghost will shrink 
With horror at their frown ; 
And, with a piercing yell. 
Into the depths of hell, 
In darkness and despair. 
You will fall forever down. 



(26) 



I 

Parbleu ! what a beautiful blonde ! 

Her hair is a golden swell; 
And her ripe red lips are richer 

Than the rarest wine of Rochelle. 

Ah! Marquis, I see you know her; 

Present me ! — Madame, I bow 
To the brightest eyes and the softest lips 

That ever mocked the marriage vow. 

No poutings — you "know my station ? 

I cannot marry ; but yet, 
In Paris vows are forgotten, 

But love, who can forget? 

My hand is tied to a coronet, 

My heart — is at your feet; 
You accept! (au revoir Marquis!) 

You are mine forever, sweet. 

II 

My friends say I must marry — 

For what? Love? Bah! a dream: — 

No, for an heir to the noblest house 
Of the blood of the old regime. 

Blue-eyes will pout for a week — 
Perhaps for a month or more ; 

But tears soon dry in the genial warmth 
Of a thousand loiiis d'or. 

(27) 



Here ! this note to the fair Louise — 

And be careful of the gold! 
I marry to-night : — a glass of wine ! 

I am shivering with cold. 

III. 

What's this ? A bag of gold ! 

A welcome thing, parbleu — 
A lock of hair — a scented note — 

And the single word "adieu !" 

My carriage — quick, my carriage ! 

To Louise, in the Rue des Morts — 
This is the house ! down with the steps ! 

Await me at the door. 

Ah, lazy one, still on the couch, 

Reclining at your ease ; 
Say, why this note and a lock of hair? 

Have you grown romantic, Louise? 

No answer ! Come, your hand ! 

Well, then your lips instead — 
Great God ! the lips are breathless — 

The fair Louise is dead. 

Away, away, to my waiting bride ! 

My liason was but a dream — 
I thank thee. Death ! thou hast proven a friend 

Of a duke of the old regime. 

(28) 



Give me a golden goblet, girl, 

And crown it high with wine — 
The sorrow that clings to my tortured heart 

I would drown in a draught divine. 
Let the wine be red as the roses rare 

That bloom in the gorgeous East, 
And its flavor rich as the Moslem taste 

In their dreams of the Prophet's feast. 

There's a spell in the blood of the martyred grape 

That can soothe the pulse of pain — 
That can quell the throbs of a tortured heart, 

Till we dream we are blest again ; 
And the smears and stains the wine may leave 

Can be speedily washed away. 
But the blot of blood on a guilty hand 

Will cling till the Judgment Day. 

Oh, she was fair as the flowers that bloom 

In the garden of Persia's king. 
Where the floral gems of every clime 

Are strewn by the prodigal spring — 
But she was false as the sulphurous light 

That plays round a mouldy tomb, 
And the death she met by my frenzied hands 

Was a well deserved doom. 

(29) 



And yet the glance of her dying eyes 

Still haunts my troubled soul; 
But the heart's great balm, forgetfulness, 

Is found in the bubbling bowl. 
So fill the gaping goblet up, 

I will quaff from its jeweled brim, 
Till the blood on this hand shall fly my sight 

And the glance of those eyes grow dim. 

Oh, the rare red wine is a sovereign balm 

For the sorrows that press us down, 
And the royal grape, in purple robed. 

Is worthy a monarch's crown; 
And while my soul is under the spell 

Of the great enchanter. Wine, 
The plummet of conscience cannot sound 

The depths of this guilt of mine. 



(30) 



She came when Faith was growing dim, 

God's promise nigh forgot; 
We called her as a gift from Him, 

The Lord's Forget-me-not. 

She lit our home three fleeting years, 
Three years with blossoms strown, 

And then despite our pleading tears 
The Master claimed His own. 

We trust Thee, Lord ! Tho' sore distressed, 

God's gift is not forgot. 
We know she blossoms on Thy breast, 

The Lord's Forget-me-not. 



(31) 



I hate the stars with a deadly hate! 

Would they were bound in hell: 
They stare at me wherever I go ; 

And I know the reason well. 

The hag and I met at the oak, 

While the staring stars looked down, 

And the tree seemed withering under a curse, 
And shrinking under a frown. 

" 'Tis here," she whispered. Give it me, then: 
There ! now 'tis hid in the earth ! 

How long did it live? "I strangled the babe 
The moment of its birth." 

Well done ! well done ! Here is the gold. 

And the mother, how does she? 
"The babe was born as the clock struck one, 

And the mother died at three." 



None living knows that the child was mine, 
For I stabbed her as she spoke. 

And threw the corpse in the stagnant pool 
Down by the blasted oak. 

The stars they saw me bury the babe 

And stab the hag by the tree ; 
And this the reason — curse them all ! 

They stare forever at me ! 

(32) 



Mmih and K 

Maud and I were slowly walking 

By the borders of the sea, 
Where the waves were wildly talking 

Of the times that used to be. 

A snowy hand was lying 

Softly pressed within my palm ; 

Maud had pouted, then had kissed me — 
First a tempest, then a calm. 

We were speaking of the future — 

Of the happy days to be. 
When the vines should wreath a garland 

O'er our cottage by the sea. 

Soon a little wave came dancing 
Up the white and pebbly shore. 

Till the feet of Maud were moistened, 
Then it ran and came no more. 

But it left a curse behind it 

That will shadow all my life; 
It has dimmed the golden future — 

It has robbed me of a wife. 

3 (33) 



There is Maud so pale and drooping, 
In the arm-chair by the door ; 

Like the moaning sea, she's talking 
Of the dreamy days of yore. 

Spring has pulsed to life the flowers — 
They are blooming in the lane ; 

Maud's cheeks have lost their roses — 
Will they ever bloom again? 

A spectral hand is stealing 

From my plighted one her breath; 
That stealthy wave has killed her — 

Rolling from the shores of death. 

The flowers are fresh and fragrant, 
But they have no charms for me ; 

My Maud is dying, dying — 
Murdered, walking by the sea. 



(34) 



A cry at night — a mother's delight — 

A life has just begun — 
Out of the dark, a vital spark — 

And the Earth spins round the Sun. 

Halcyon hours — orange flowers — 

Gaily the Seasons run — 
Sunshine — rain — pleasure — pain — 

And the Earth spins round the Sun. 

Pulseless breast — hands at rest — 

Life's short race is run — 
Under the sod — back to God — 

And the Earth spins round the Sun. 



(35) 



A reckless youth — a trusting girl — 

Fire and Flax together — 
Tender kisses — vows of truth — 
Guile of Judas — faith of Ruth — 
And the fickle April weather. 

A pleading girl — a scoffing churl — 

October in golden glory — 
A woman dead in the river's bed — 
Gossiping blackbirds overhead, 

And the reeds astir with the story. 



(36) 



At ti^t uliiratre 

I entered the lobby, dreaming a dream, 

As Marco, cruel and cold. 
Pressed her snowy hand on the marble heart 

That had just been bought and sold — 
But my spirit was off on a journey then 

To the happy days of old. 

Step by step did it slowly go, 

Down the silent Yesterdays, 
Till it came to a year that was bright with love, 

And all the months were Mays — 
And it met a spirit purer far 

Than those you see in plays. 

The house was crowded then, as now, — 

And some were pale with fear 
As they watched the play, — and in many an eye 

Was a tender pitying tear 
As Cordelia — dead — in her stainless robes 

Was borne in the arms of Lear. 

I turned away from the saddening sight — 

And staggered with surprise 
As I met the wonderful light that flowed 

From Maud's immaculate eyes : 
Our hearts met then — they will meet again 

In the bowers of Paradise. 

(37) 



Twelve months of May ; and then, alas ! 

The blast came bleak and chill — 
It killed the rose upon her cheek — 

The lily pleaded still — 
In vain the prayer — she sleeps beneath 

The willow on the hill. 

And as the actors play their parts, 

My soul takes up its woe, 
And with its burden travels back 

To the buried long ago — 
To the happy dream-land of my life. 

Where roses always blow. 



(?.8) 



Into the moonlight pale and dim, 

Side by side they trod ; 
Her heart was filled with love of him, 

His with fear of God. 

Came a spirit tempting to sin — 

Sadly urged were they ; 
She stood up with her love within, 

He knelt down to pray. 

Died the words on his heated lips — 
His fear of God was gone ; 

The light that led him was in eclipse. 
Hers the brighter shone. 

Glanced he upward in her eyes — 
Came back his self-control ; 

The truth was clear! Love purifies, 
Fear vitiates the soul. 

Out of the moonlight pale and dim, 

Side by side they trod, 
Saved were they by her love of him. 

Not his fear of God. 



(39) 



At J^arifi 

(1847.) 

Mirrors and musk — red roses abloom — 

Women and song and wine, — 
With never a fear of coming doom, 

Nor thought of the words divine, 

The wages of sin is death! 

Petite Fifine and stately Adele, 

Count Alfonse and his cousin Henri, 

Are singing the songs that are echoes of hell, 
Mocking the wisdom of Galilee, 
The wages of sin is death! 

A taunting word — an answering blow — 

A face like carven stone : 
"Name time and place ;" — "Eh bien, mon beau, 

At five, in the Bois de Boulogne," 

And the wages of sin is death! 

Two whiffs of smoke on the startled air, 

Two shots that ring as one, — 
Two pallid corpses staring there 

In the red of the rising sun, — 

And the wages of sin is death! 



(40) 



The vernal vales, the untrod heights, 

The mountains and the sea, 
The myriad suns and satellites 

Are not enough for me. 

And Right and Wrong and deathless Song, 

Art and Philosophy, 
And Love and Hate, Free Will and Fate 

Are not enough for me. 

And all that was and all that is, 

And all that yet shall be 
In Time and Space, thro' Nature's grace, 

Is not enough for me. 

For life immortal is my right — 

My heritage in fee; 
And all — without the Infinite — 

Is not enough for me. 



(41) 



^Ifrn 'B'wUtB 

We walked in the garden — she and I, 
As fair a maiden as ever was seen, 
With a form such as poets see in sleep, 
And a face like Proserpine. 

The violets, ambushed in the leaves, 
Peeped up in her eyes as she passed — 
And the roses thought the Queen of the Flowers 
Had come to their court at last. 

She looked so pure, and she looked so sweet. 
That — forgive me. Virgin Mother in Heaven ! — 
I felt as tho' I could kneel at her feet 
To have my sins forgiven. 

And three of the violets ambushed there 
I smilingly plucked — "Here are two," I said, 
"That are lovingly twined, like man and wife: 
The other you see is unwed." 

She took them tenderly from my hand. 
While her delicate, dainty finger tips 
Blushed scarlet, as tho' they knew I longed 
To press them to my lips. 



(42) 



And the two entwined she put to sleep 
In her pure young bosom in peace to rest ; 
And the third at her throat, where only the 
ripples 
Came up from the heave of her breast. 

And I thought as I looked at that lonely flower, 
Of the Peri whose error was unforgiven ; 
Who stands in her beauty — desolate — 
At the Jasper Gates of Heaven. 

And I know the two in her virgin breast 
Will pass away in beauty and bloom. 
Dying in youth, on the bosom of love, 
Embalmed in their own perfume ; 

While the other will live in the eyes of men, 
But all alone, on her neck of snow, 
And far too high to feel the warmth 
Of the heart that beats below. 

But better to die on the breast of love. 
Like those two unheeded flowers. 
Than live alone on Glory's heights 
In this desolate world of ours. 



(43) 



This little tress of hair I hold 
Has fluttered on a brow as white 

As Genius, guiding Phidias' hand, 
Has ever brought to light. 

And when this night, a year ago. 
She gave it me with kisses sweet, 

New hopes came peeping from my heart, 
Like daisies at my feet. 

She bade me keep it till the love 
I had for her should all depart — 

Though tears are gathering in my eyes, 
I press it to my heart. 

I swore that I would hold it dear 
As my own honor or my life ; 

Till vows should ripen into deeds 
And she became my wife. 

And so we parted — I with hope, 

And she with tremors and with sighs ; 

But now, alas! the hope is dead. 
And tears are in my eyes. 

(44) 



And memory summons up the past — 

Recalls the kisses from her lips ; 
The sun of love that lit my life 

Has passed into eclipse. 

And though the Spring has flushed the flowers, 

And made the roses ruby-red, 
Yet she cannot revive a hope 

That in my heart is dead. 

And nothing now remains to me 
Of her who was so false and fair. 

Except the tender thoughts that cling 
Around this tress of hair. 

And so I blush not at the tears 

That from my burning eyelids start. 

When on this anniversary night 
I press it to my heart. 



(45) 



®0 

There is a beauty in thy soft blue eyes, 

A sunny brightness in thy golden hair, 
That turns to happy smiles my deep-drawn sighs 

And lights the darkness of my heart's despair. 
Thy liquid laugh has drowned my heaviest care — 

My cause of mourning's a forgotten thing — 
And from my heart-depths joyous feelings flow, 

Like gushing waters from a mountain spring 
When Summer's sun has thawed the Winter's 

snow. 
My thoughts grow clearer, and at last I know 
That Fate has pleasures still in store for me 

To glad my spirit in the coming years. 

The light from thy dear eyes shines on my 
tears, 
And hope's fair rainbow owes its birth to thee. 



(46) 



O Love ! 
Spirit Divine ! 
Thou reignest in my heart to-night — 
Above, 
Like diamonds in a mine, 
A milHon stars are bright; 
But none 
Equals the splendor of thy chastening light. 

One 
Shines like Michael in the Immortal fight, 

When, foremost in the war, 
And radiant with celestial might. 

He clove 
Aspiring Satan on the empyrean height. 
But thou, O Love! 
Are brighter far 
(Being a part of Deity) 
Than e'en this glowing, God-created star. 
Thou reignest in my heart, 
Which, pulsed with thy creative purity. 
Makes me a part 
Of the Divinity — 
Beneath thy sway 
I claim affinity 
With Almighty God, 

(47) 



And lay 
My earthly grossness on its kindred sod. 

I renounce the clay — 

And piercing with immortal ken 
The gloomy clouds which hide the undying 

Day, 
I see the light that blesses lovmg men : 

A ray 
Swifter than the ark-flown dove 
Heralds my pathway to the Promised Land — 
I cleave the holy realms above — 
Full in the eternal light I stand, 
God-flushed, through thee, O Love! 



(4») 



We walked upon her father's lands, 
'Mong fields of golden grain — 

We met to say a sad farewell, 
And pray to meet again. 

"You go," she said, ''to win a name, 
As you have won my heart; 

Remember Love attends on Fame, 
And do a noble part." 

"But if I fail to gain the prize. 

Despite of duty done?" 
She turned on me her flashing eyes. 

As brilliant as the sun — 

"My love is for the man," she said, 

"Whom honor nobly hails; 
Not for the wretch who basely shrinks. 

Nor him who meanly fails." 

"The bad," I said, "are often raised. 
The good are oft kept down — 

And many bravely bear the cross, 
Who never wear the crown." 

"Then such a one is not for me," 
She said, and turned aside. 

"The feeling that you have for me 
Is less of love than pride," 

I answered as I gave her back 

The ring she gave to me. 
We parted there — between us now 

Loud roars the stormy sea. 

4 (49) 



Room for the Conqueror ! — room ! 
Make way! 
He needs the total of the rounded earth 
To stretch his hmbs. 'Tis useless that ye pray. 
He comes ! muffling mirth on pallid lips of clay ! 
All must submit — his mandates all obey, 
From frosty Age to things of yesterday. 

E'en babes., within their mother's womb, 
Are subject to his sway ! 
Stern-hearted Manhood is his daily prey; 
And lily-browed, rose-cheeked maidens gay. 
Radiant in their bloom, 
Resign their lovers to become his bride. 
Room for the Conqueror ! — room ! 
He comes ! 
The Great Invisible ! with stealthy stride — 
Wreathed in gloom — 

Pride 
Unbends and grovels in the dust 

Before his frown ! 
Kings leave their lust, 
And, pale as lilies on a moonlit tomb, 

Come down 
From their gilt thrones, and lie supine, 
Like tumbled statues, till the Day of Doom! 

Love — Valor — Fame 
Shrink before his breath, 

And mingle with the sod. 

He comes ! the Messenger Divine — 

The calling voice of God ; 

And in His name, 
Room for the Conqueror ! — room ! 
Room for the victor Death ! 
(50) 



Qlan olfU? 

She lived a life of sin and shame, 

Spurned by the fool, shunned by the good- 
A withered hope, a blasted name, 

A blighted womanhood. 

She died within a loathsome den — 
Unwept for to the grave was borne, 

While sleek-cheeked, pious hypocrites 
Sneered with a smile of scorn. 

And said: "This is the end of sin. 
And Satan now has claimed his own." 

Forgetting Christ — ''He that is pure, 
Let him first cast a stone." 

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," He said; 

And even the thief upon the cross 
Gave up his life in penitence — 

A gainer by the loss. 

And gentle Mercy pleads for all; 

And she, perhaps, may dwell 
Up with the singing hosts of Heaven — 

Peace, bigot ! who can tell ? 



(SI) 



9tt % ^rant 

O, how I love those vernal spots, 
Where daisies and forget-me-nots, 
And violets in tufted plots, 

Are seen on every hand — 
Where birds are voicing roundelays, 
And lilies look in summer days, 
Like leaning towers of the Fays, 

In dim old fairy-land. 

And wandering there my heart is stirred 
As though I listened to the word 

Of God from angel lips ; 
And selfish thoughts are put to flight 
Like shadows from the misty height 
When waking Day, with eyes of light, 
Breaks from the wanton arms of Night 

And walks the mountain tips. 

And in the south, far, far away. 
Where rosy twilights never stay 
To soothe the parting of the day, 

Or welcome in the night. 
There is a spot most dear to me, 
And near by is the murmuring sea. 
Striving to tell the mystery 

That's hid from human sight. 

And rich magnolias there are seen, 
With veined leaves of deepest green. 
And fragrant blossoms that, I ween, 
Are whiter than the snow ; 

(52) 



And heavy is the balmy air 
With all the fragrance floating there, 
From orange flowers, pure and fair, 
That in the summer grow. 

My heart took lessons of the sea 
And strove to tell its mystery, 
And thrilled with wildest ecstasy 

When, with a royal grace. 
She turned on me her eyes divine 
And laid her lily hand in mine. 
And said, "I am forever thine," 

And looked into my face. 

O, fairer then the flowers grew; 
The violets deepened in their hue; 
The zephyrs round her tresses flew ; 

She was so very fair 
The birds sang out in tuneful mirth. 
And sunbeams danced upon the earth 

To music in the air. 

The sea still murmurs on the strand. 
But I am in a northern land. 
And she obeyed a stern command 

And gave her doubly perjured hand 
To one who loves her not ; 
And though remembrance calleth tears, 
And fills my heart with shadowy fears. 
Yet still that grove in coming years 

Will never be forgot ; 
The memory of the past endears 

And sanctifies the spot. 

(53) 



©ttrst unh Skat 

A beautiful hope is dead and gone, 

Buried deep in the depths of my heart — 
Buried hke thousands gone before, 

Only it lies in a grave apart; 
For brighter it was than all the rest, 

And dearer to me than all beside. 
And this, perhaps, was why it went 

And left me alone with my pain and pride. 

But pride, I fear, will never suffice 

To fill the place of a buried love — 
Can the lightning writhing athwart the sky 

Make me forget the stars above ? 
'Tis manly, no doubt, to laugh in pain — 

To scoff at a love you have lost, in fine; 
But a laugh will hardly make up for a love, 

Or the human supplant the divine. 

"Then, why not die?" says a tempting voice. 

I would that I might, but I lack the nerve; 
Nay, now your eyes bespeak me a coward, 

And on your lips sits a scornful curve. 
So let it be — but I lack the nerve 

To make this living frame a clod ; 
Fearful I am to throw my life 

Into the very face of God. 

(54) 



Besides, my days are not all in all, 

A terrible throbbing of heart and brain — 
Promethean tortures were made for gods, 

But men are finite even in pain; 
And so my agony sleeps at times, 

And supernal joys that few can know 
Bless me beyond the dreams of men, 

And flush my soul with a heavenly glow ! 

For I have a friend — a luminous friend — 

The soul of the poppies rich and red, 
That walks the pathways of my heart 

Like an angel among the dead. 
And down, far down to the bottom he goes. 

Till he comes to the hope that is buried there, 
Waves his magical hands, and lo! 

A blessing upstarts from a great despair. 

Then why should I die with such a friend 

To work his miracle when I will — 
To speak to me like Christ to the waves, 

And quiet my heart with his "Peace, be still"? 
No ! twine sweet flowers around my brow, 

And give me the wondrous drug to drink, 
That makes it a melody only to live, 

And a perfect poem to think. 



(55) 



(EamptnButwn 

I 

The roses will not blow, 
The lily hangs its head, 

All the flowers know 
Our little bud is dead. 

II 

The spangled fields of night 
Are brighter now at even. 

Another star of light 
Is blossoming in heaven ! 

Ill 

Blessings on the Power 
That, flowing from afar, 

Changed a mortal flower 
To an immortal star. 



(56) 



A Jart 

Once (in a dream) I caught a fairy; 
I clipped her wings and called her Mary; 
And oh ! my heart was filled with glee 
To think my captive she should be. 
But when I waked, upon my sight 
There beamed a maiden fair and bright ; 
Her hair hung down in golden curls ; 
Her teeth were white as lucent pearls; 
Her eyes — may Jove forgive those eyes 
For being bluer than the skies. 
A form so fair that, like the spray, 
It seems to light itself away — 
In short, the image of the fairy, 
And, strange to say, her name was Mary. 
But now, alas, it should be so: 
Dreams always by contraries go — 
And so went mine, and I did rave 
That, waking, I had lost a slave; 
But what was worse, alas the day! 
'Twas I was captive to the Fay. 



(57) 



'Twould seem the fairies, to excite surprise 
Among us mortals, had endowed Adele 
With baby-sprites that froHcked in her eyes, 
As erst they did upon some hly-bell. 
So gay and arch the lovely maiden seems, 
My heart recalls the creature of its dreams 
In days that now are past — the long ago. 
When in my sleep I saw her, graceful, play 
Among the violets and roses gay 
In flowery vales where now the thistles grow. 
The beauty of my dreams has come again — 
And Joy is ringing out pale Sorrow's knell — 
The chimes are echoed in this simple strain: 
Wilt thou accept it, beautiful Adele? 



(58) 



(18570 

Oh, Italy ! for thee I weave my song, 

Thou sunny land of beauty and of flowers ; 
Tho' thou art groaning 'neath the heel of Wrong, 

Thy beauty's unimpaired, thy classic bowers 
Are still as fair as when, in ancient days, 
The laurel-crowned Petrarch framed his lays 

To love-lorn Laura. Palaces and towers 
Have lost no beauty from the lapse of Time, 

But rather, folded in historic page. 
Have braved the centuries and become sublime. 

I love thee, Italy, with a poet's rage: 
And flushed with memories of thy sunny clime, 

My heart tumultuous, flutters like a dove, 
And flies to thee, thou land of light and love. 



(59) 



Sly? ^mntiata 

A noble band in search of Truth — 

And yet in vain they preach 
That man should disbelieve in all 

But what his senses teach; 

For all the truths that science shows, 

If viewed without pretence, 
But tend to prove, beyond a doubt, 

The impotence of Sense. 

What seems as firmly fixed as Fate, 

Is fickle found as wind; 
What seems a million leagues ahead, 

A billion is behind. 

Besides the facts, we too must know 

To read the facts aright. 
Nor dream there's naught beyond our ken 

But nothingness and night. 

For countless years men saw the sun, 

With reverential awe. 
Rise up and cross the firmament, 

Nor doubted what they saw; 

(60) 



Till Science by her light revealed 
The course the Planets run; 

How Earth upon her axis wheels 
And circles round the Sun. 

It may be stars we see this night 

Deep in the Heaven's glow 
Were sunk in darkness and destroyed 

A thousand years ago — 

But still they shine ; and Science tells 
Of rays that pierce the sky — 

But why they dart and why they shine 
Elicits no reply. 

They know the law that Newton found 

Keeps order in the skies — 
But yet the Power that made the Law 

They fail to recognize. 

They but delude themselves — confound 
The Lower with the Higher, 

And dream the quenchless spark of Life 
Springs from material fire. 

In vain they strive — the Infinite 

Baffles the power of sense, 
And mortal plummet cannot sound 

The depths of Providence. 

O bright the triumph and the gain 

Of Science and of Art, 
But brighter far shine Faith and Hope, 

To cheer the human heart. 

(6i) 



Mi^ut tiff (EvltkH #an0 

The little cricket left the hearth 

And sat upon my knee, 
And sang a sweet and merry song 

Of how my love loved me — 
"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

The little cricket sang; 
And through my fire-lighted room 

The merry music rang — 

"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

God bless you, little cricket. 

For sitting on my knee, 
And singing such a dainty song 

Of how my love loves me — 
"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

Again the cricket sang; 
And in my heart the marriage bells 
In happy cadence rang — 

"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

The winter went — the summer came — 

The buds were on the lea, 
And my love was decked with orange flowers, 

But not, alas ! for me — 
"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

(62) 



Was rang and sang- with glee; 
But the birds that sang and the bells that rang, 
Neither rang nor sang for me — 
"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

The summer's gone — the winter's here — 

The cricket's on my knee; 
But he sings no more, as he sang before, 

Of how my love loves me — 
"She loves you ! she loves you !" 

He sings no more in glee; 
Yet still I bless the little cricket, 

For singing once to me — 

"She loves you ! she loves you !" 



(63) 



The maid I love has violet eyes, 

And rose-leaf lips of red, 
She wears the moonshine round her neck, 

The sunshine round her head; 
And she is rich in every grace, 

And poor in every guile, 
And crov^ned kings might envy me 

The splendor of her smile. 

She walks the earth with such a grace. 

The lilies turn to look. 
And waves rise up to catch a glance, 

And stir the quiet brook ; 
Nor ever will they rest again. 

But chatter as they flow 
And babble of her crimson lips. 

And of her breast of snow. 

And e'en the leaves upon the trees 

Are whispering tales of her. 
And tattle till they grow so warm. 

That in the general stir 
They twist them from the mother-branch, 

And through the air they fly, 
Till fainting with the love they feel, 

They flutter down and die. 

(64) 



And what is stranger still than all 

The wonders of her grace, 
Her mind's the only thing to match 

The glories of her face. 
Oh! she is Nature's paragon — 

All innocent of Art; 
And she has promised me her hand, 

And given me her heart. 

And when the spring again shall flush 

Our glorious southern bowers, 
My love will wear a bridal veil, 

A wreath of orange flowers ; 
And so I care not if the sun 

Should founder in the sea. 
For, oh ! the Heaven of her love 

Is light enough for me. 



(65) 



Olnm^ Jill ®I|p (i;obbt 

Song, 

Come fill the goblet to the brim, 

And let my soul go Maying, 
In. ideal-realms and fairy-fields 

Where flowers repay the staying. 
The world is old, and wan, and cold, 

The months are all December, 
And what was once the fire of love 

Is now a dying ember; 
The Fates, instead of whispering "Hope," 

But breathe the curse "Remember." 

So fill the goblet to the brim, 
And let my soul go Maying, 

In ideal realms and fairy-fields 
Where flowers repay the staying; 

Where Ariadne bows her head, 
And weeps at my delaying. 

And he who quaffs the generous blood 
Of the grape so rich and purple. 

May snap his fingers at the Fates 
And bind his brow with myrtle. 

(66) 



But he who scorns the jolly god, 
Old Bacchus, full and reeling, 

May drink the tears, instead of wine, 
Adown his pale face stealing; 

For in the varying "Game of Life" 
Grim Pluto does the dealing. 

So fill the goblet to the brim. 
And let my soul go Maying, 

In ideal-realms and fairy-fields 
Where flowers repay the staying; 

Where Ariadne bows her head, 
And weeps at my delaying. 



i67) 



There's a mossy, shady valley 

Where the waters wind and flow, 
And the daisies sleep in winter 

'Neath a coverlet of snow ; 
And violets, blue-eyed violets. 

Bloom in beauty in the spring, 
And the sunbeams kiss the wavelets 

Till they seem to laugh and sing. 

But in autumn, when the sunlight 

Crowns the cedar-covered hill. 
Shadows darken in the valley, 

Shadows ominous and still ; 
And the yellow leaves, like banners 

Of an Elfin-host that's fled. 
Tinged with gold and royal purple. 

Flutter sadly overhead. 

And those shadows, gloomy shadows. 

Like dim phantoms on the ground. 
Stretch their dreamy lengths forever 

On a daisy-covered mound. 
And I loved her, yes, I loved her. 

But the angels loved her too. 
So she's sleeping in the valley, 

'Neath the sky so bright and blue. 

(68) 



And no slab of pallid marble 

Rears its white and ghastly head, 
Telling wanderers in the valley 

Of the virtues of the dead ; 
But a lily is her tombstone, 

And a dew-drop, pure and bright. 
Is the epitaph an angel wrote 

In the stillness of the night. 

And I'm mournful, very mournful. 

For my soul doth ever crave 
For the fading of the shadows 

From that little woodland grave; 
For the memory of the loved one 

From my soul will never part. 
And those shadows in the valley 

Dim the sunshine of mv heart. 



(69) 



The censer swung and the organ rolled, 

And the Bishop in pomp and state was there, 

And the Mother of God from her gilded frame 
Gazed down on the kneeling pair. 

Back of the jewels and flowers and lace 

A mother stood with her babe on her breast. 

And the frozen look of despair on her face, 
The ice at her heart confessed. 

As the ladies swept out in the pride of their 
charms 

(The newly made bride the gayest of all), 
A woman fell dead with a child in her arms, 

Near the Crucified Christ on the wall. 

And the Pharisee sniffed and the Pharisee said 

(For the tribe still lives as in days of old), 
"What dreadful doom for the sudden dead. 
Shut out from the Father's fold." 

But I think the Power that reigns above. 
The final hope of the tempest-tossed, 

Will pardon the sinner that sinned for love 
And died when love was lost. 



(70) 



She is the lily of our town, 

As pure as she is fair, 
With brownish shadows in her eyes 

And sunshine in her hair. 
A bonny, winsome, darling sprite, 

The very flower of Grace! 
And thoughts conceived within her breast 

Are born upon her face. 

She has a low Cordelia-voice 

That steals upon the ear. 
And tells of glory only known 

In some diviner sphere ; 
It soothes the senses like the songs 

Of golden-throated birds, 
Whose music is so eloquent 

They have no need for words. 

I sit and gaze upon her face 

Until my eyes are dim. 
And fancies flit across my mind 

Of white-robed seraphim. 
I seem to walk the starry way, — 

Where angel hosts are seen, — 
And only touch the earth again 

When I have left Pauline. 



(71) 



(From the Persian.) 

If when I die to me 'tis given 
To name my own pecuHar Heaven, 
As well as one with whom I'd be 
Content to spend eternity, 
I'd choose yon cloud that I might roam, 
Unfettered, thro' the ethereal dome, 
And you, beloved, shouldst be the star 
To light my soul in Heaven afar. 
That golden band around the edge 
The sun would give us for a hedge, 
And slowly, side by side, we'd walk, 
Whispering softly lovers' talk. 
Breathing the dear devotion o'er 
That we on earth had sworn before ; 
And should we tire of the stroll 
We'd seat ourselves upon the knoll, — 
That little rising which it seems 
Was built for us from sunny beams, — 
And there reclining side by side. 
While rosy Loves around us hide, 
Each in his hand a tiny dart 
Tipped with a joy to glad the heart, 
We'd lie clasped in each other's arms 
Oblivious to this world's alarms. 

(72) 



Our lips together would be pressed, 
My head would sink upon your breast, 
Your cloudy tresses bathe my face 
And fold me in a soft embrace ; 
And then my arms I'd round you twine, 
Your heaving bosom pressed to mine. 
Till each wild wish your heart confessed 
Awoke its twin within my breast. 
And then again we'd wildly kiss 
Till e'en your soul dissolved in bliss 
And moistened with immortal dew 
Your lips of ripe pomegranate hue; 
While I, beloved, in amorous play 
Would suck your balmy breath away. 
Till trembling with the wild excess, 
And fainting with our happiness, 
We'd parting gasp for breath, and then, 
Beloved Shireen, we'd kiss again — 
In such bright joys from day to day 
Eternity would pass away. 
Haroun-al-Rasched and his queen 
Would envy Shayone and Shireen. 



(73) 



iCttomB 



I wonder if the dead man 

Who in his coffin lies, 
Is muttering curses deep in Hell 

Or singing in the skies; 

Or if with judgment cool and clear, 
Where'er his lines are cast, 

Amid his pleasures or his pains 
He meditates the past. 

And ponders on his selfish ends — 
His actions pure and just — 

His bitter hate — his tender love — 
His avarice and his lust; 

His scoffing words — his dark desires- 

His aspirations high — 
His groveling in the dirt and slime — 

His soaring in the sky. 

To Whom, or What, the Good or Bad 

Is due, I cannot trace; 
Perhaps it was his own — perhaps 

His Sires or his Race. 

(74) 



Or what the moral weight may be 

Of Impulse or of Will — 
Perchance a grain of Good outweighs 

An avalanche of 111. 

The subtle hands of Circumstance, 
Thro' countless years of strife, 

Have made of Evil and of Good 
The warp and woof of Life; 

So closely woven, thread by thread, 
So intertwined and blent. 

No finite mind can diagnose 
The Deed or the Intent. 

The sins of all the centuries 
Were ambushed in his blood ; 

His upward path made slippery 
With vile Silurian mud. 

The Brutal Instincts in his blood 
His base descent proclaim ; 

The Human Yearnings for the Good 
Shed glory on his shame. 

And so I wonder if the man 

Who in his coffin lies, 
Is muttering curses deep in Hell 

Or singing in the skies. 



(75) 



She laid the flowers in my hand, 
And in her graceful, quiet way 
Looked in my face — I saw a light 
That seemed to me like day. 

Not like our gorgeous tropic day 
When, crimsoned with a mad desire, 
The sun comes rushing wildly up 
To set the East on fire. 

But like the pure primeval light 
Which, on the fourth day from on high. 
Hallowed the Earth — before the Sun 
Had ever wronged the Sky. 

The glory shining in her face 
Revealed that pure in heart was she — 
And I remembered such was blest 
By Christ in Galilee. 

And as the Prophet left the Mount 
And mingled with the waiting band, 
And wandered through the wilderness 
To seek the Promised Land, 

Flushed with the light divine that lit 
The inner temple of his heart, 
And left a halo on his life 
That never could depart. 

So I, amid the shades of night 
That gather round my pilgrim way, 
Still feel the glory of that face 
That seemed to me like day. 

(76) 



®I|r Uag of St 

A little bird sat on a tree 

A-singing in the sun, 
"The world was made alone for me 

To live and feed upon ; 

"When I am hungry, down I fly 

And snap a grub or germ — 
For me was made the azure sky, 

For me the wiggling worm." 

An eagle, poising in the blue, 

The foolish twittering heard, 
And swooping downward, straight and true, 

He seized the shrinking bird, 

Then soaring, like an arrow sped 

To carry home his game — 
A hunter, passing, shot him dead, 

And down he whirling came. 

And so it goes — all creatures prey, 

The great upon the small ; 
And man with his imperial sway 

Makes victims of them all. 

He dooms to death the struggling life 

Of Earth and Air and Sea — 
Proclaiming midst the ceaseless strife, 

"All things were made for me." 

But Nature no distinction makes 
'Twixt highest types and germs — 

And so proud man, in turn, she takes 
To furnish food for worms. 

(77) 



There is a lady in the land, 

She is very sweet and fair, 
And she hath a lily hand, 

Which I should love to press ; 
But her air 
Is so stately, and she mocks at my distress 

With a manner debonair; 
As though she had a queenly right 
To dash my eyes with royal light, 
And stare to death my happiness. 

Yet there are times when she will change, 

And gaze into mine eyes 

With an earnest, sad surprise. 
Whilst I hold my quivering breath: 

Then 'twill seem as though she gazed 
Down my fancy's wildest range, 

Till, angrily amazed 
At the love that blossoms there, 
Her eyes hurl back a scornful glance 
That stabs me like a fiery lance 

Of an angel bright and fair; 
And I know a sudden death 

Of every feeling save despair. 

(78) 



But what cares she, so cold and proud, 

Whether I live or die? 

I am naught to her 
But a single one in a mighty crowd; 

A neglected worshipper — 
Who hopeless bows before a shrine 
Till his eyes grow dim 
As though with wine; 
Till his swelling heart is heard to beat. 
Not with pleasure soft and sweet, 
But with a burning passion heat 

That withers it to the core: 
Yet though she should jeeringly mock at my fate, 
And shadow my name with her blackest hate, 

I shall love her for evermore. 



(79) 



Written in an Album. 

Perchance upon some summer day, 
When Hvely friends are far away, 
You'll wander by a shady brook 
And stop within some verdant nook, 
And, gazing on the sweet wild flowers 
(Those gems that deck this world of ours), 
You'll say, "I doubt there's aught so bright 
As blooming flowers to the sight." 
In fancy now I see you glance 
Upon the glassy stream's expanse. 
And all at once is put to rout 
That modest, unassuming doubt — 
You blush to see reflected there 
A human flower twice as fair. 



(80) 



Three young men rode into the town, 
Side by side as the sun went down ; 
Shook hands and parted to seek their rest, 
And each to Hve as to him seemed best. 

The first caroused with cards and wine. 
Decked his harlots with jewels fine, 
And laughed as he tossed his glass on high, 
Nor recked, God help him, he had to die. 

The second did naught but moan and pray, 
Groan through the night and through the day — 
He lived in fear, God help him, say I — 
And only thought that he had to die. 

The third enjoyed the goods he had, 
Laughed with the gay and wept with the sad ; 
Nor ever forgot, God bless him, say I, 
That he had to live and he had to die. 



(8i) 



f ^0, Matt 

Dispatches State that There Are no Indications of a De- 
cisive Battle Until After the Holidays. 

Yes, wait until the Holy days 

Are over till you turn, 
With hardened heart and eyes ablaze, 

To ravage and to burn. 

The birthday of the Prince of Peace 

Ye greet with clanging bells ; 
Yet, ere their joyous clamors cease, 

Ye fight like infidels. 

I see the battle leaders pray, 

And, from the holy shrine, 
Order their grenadiers to slay. 

Their engineers to mine; 

And while the hapless foeman die 

By thousands on the plain. 
They lift their suppliant voices on high 

And mock the Lord again. 

Far better that ye never dream 
The Prince of Peace was born, 

Than thus His gracious name blaspheme. 
His teachings laugh to scorn. 

(82) 



The sacrilegious voice you raise 

Is insult to His ear — 
There's scoffing in your song of praise, 

And murder in your prayer. 

O most benign and blessed Lord, 

Whose synonym is Peace, 
Compel the sheathing of the sword. 

And bid the slaughter cease. 



(83) 



AftFr Sttutpr 

Come, pass the bottle, let us deeply drink — 

In former days I held it passing wise 
To scoff at wine. Forsooth, my visions then 

Were palpable. I saw them with my work- 
day eyes. 
But now the times are changed — I cannot see 

Aught on the earth, or in the skies, divine ; 
My eyes are clouded and my heart is dull; 

Beauty only comes to me through wine. 

Three bottles do away with time and space, 

And give me glimpses of a heavenly range 
Where everything is real ; no shadows are there 

To mock our longings with perpetual change: 
The roses' perfume, and the sunsets' tints, 

The glories of the earth, and sky and sea. 
The fleeting visions of our dreams are real, 

Radiant with life which is eternity. 

And tender thoughts are there personified, 

And hope is dead, for what we wish is ours, 
Light flows from all ; the wandering rays 

Shoot down to earth and give the hue to flow- 
ers — 
And Nature there has left no room for Art ; 

What we conceive is instant struck to life. 
Each is the framer of his own bright realm, 

Founded on love and free from care or strife. 

(84) 



The rounded earth which once I deemed so fair 

Has lost its glories and its charms for me — 
Glowing with wine I pierced the misty veil 

That droops round Time and hides Eternity. 
'Tis false that we must die before we see 

The dazzling splendors of the world above: 
The mists dissolve, the shadows flit away, 

Before the radiance of a holy love. 

And such a love I feel when, flushed with wine, 

My grosser passions die or sink to rest, 
Leaving my soul, untrammeled by the clay. 

To seek its home, and for a time be blest. 
So give me wine, and let the bigots rave ; 

I heed them not — my soaring spirit's free 
To view the glories that they know not of — 

Wine makes a new apocalypse for me. 



(85) 



#0«9: ©0 

O the Spring is here and decks the year 

With roses red and white ; 
The birds they sing, and the bells they ring, 
And all the day is bright ; 
And the glowing stars, 
In their golden cars, 
Ride down the balmy night! 

But the rose may blow, and burn, and glow, 

And crimson all the Spring; 
The bells may toll for a parting soul, 
Or for a bridal ring ; 

But neither roses white nor red, 
Nor clanging bells, nor stars o'erhead, 
Can tempt me still to woe or wed, 
Or love so slight a thing ! 



(86) 



QIar? 31 



what care I for lilies pale 
Or roses in their splendor? 

My Love's the Flower of all the Earth, 

So modest, sweet and tender; 
She is the music of my life — 

The rhyme to all my reasons, 
Her beauty kindly Nature gave 

To typify the Seasons. 

The Spring-time blossoms on her cheeks, 

In lilies and in roses, 
And gorgeous Autumn's golden hue 

Upon her hair reposes ; 
While Winter's snow is on her breast 

In virgin, dazzling whiteness, 
And Summer glows within her heart 

In tropic warmth and brightness. 

1 sing her glory in the sun 

That all the world may know it — 
She illustrates a perfect poem 

By some celestial poet. 
So what care I for lilies pale 

Or roses in their splendor? 
My Love's the Flower of all the Earth, 

So modest, sweet and tender. 



(87) 



iouttt 

Suppliant eyes too tense for tears — 

"Is there a God above?" she said; 
Small wonder she raved, clutched close to her 
breast 

Her baby-boy lay dead. 

Lilies will blow and lilies will fade, 

And dim are the skies ere the stars are out — 

And hid in the mist that clings to Faith 
Is the mocking imp called Doubt. 



(88) 



Nature fi Wag 

She moulds with dust thro' tears and strife, 

Unheeding blood or pain, 
And shapes the myriad forms of life 

Death dooms to dust again. 

She silent toils thro' ages vast. 

Improving as she strives. 
And pays for errors in the Past 

A thousand million lives. 

Yet as the endless chain revolves 

Thro' Eons of distress. 
Each round a human soul evolves 

That makes for righteousness ; 

And so she works the Father's will, 

By process of her own, 
And moulds the forms with perfect skill 

That kneel before the throne. 



(89) 



Ho, Tiger in the jungle ! Ho, Serpent in the 

grass ; 
Ho, Monkey in the tree-top ! Strange things 

have come to pass. 

Here now is your descendant — the creature 

known as Man — 
To prove your strain is in him is doing all he 

can. 

He shows the Tiger's fierceness, he shows the 

Serpent's guile — 
And the antics of the Monkey he is playing all 

the while. 

From the Order out of Chaos, from the Cosmic 

stir and fuss 
Man emerges in the foreground as the ridiculus 

mus — 

Though it cannot be disputed that he towers 

over all. 
If his height is justly measured by the depth that 

he can fall. 

Coo) 



In the process of evolving — the unfolding from 

within — 
He appears the sole Resultant that is capable of 

sin. 

And he gabbles of the Future, tho' he breathes 

with bated breath, 
Losing half the joy of living in the craven fear 

of Death. 

For he claims he has developed, through the ages 
as they roll. 

What he names the Moral Nature and the in- 
carnated Soul : 

And the two gave birth to Conscience, which, 

potent in its might. 
Has promulgated edicts called the Laws of 

Wrong and Right. 

But this does not concern you, O Tiger — Mon- 
key — Snake, — 

As you have no Moral Nature there's no law for 
you to break. 

You have naught to do with battling for the Fu- 
ture and the True, 

The Prize-ring of the Present being quite enough 
for you. 

But man is growing restive and is making quite 

a din, 
As his pride is sorely wounded being forced to 

call you Kin. 

^91) 



Tho' I cannot see the reason why You are held 

to blame, 
For it goes without denial that 'tis He that makes 

the claim. 

Tho' perhaps you would be willing, and as eager, 

too, as He 
To lop the human branches from your genealogic 

tree — 

For why vex the Coming Ages with Murder, 

Lies, and Lust? 
Better slumber, undeveloped, in the fiery Cosmic 

Dust. 

And the question now arises, who should growl 

with greater vim. 
He, for being your descendant — or you, for 

breeding him? 



(92) 



'B5 anh 7B 

Commemorative of the generosity of the North to the 
South during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878. 

The cannon's idiotic mouth 

Had ceased its senseless roar ; 
Throughout the hamlets of the South 

The sabres clashed no more. 

Our heroes who had fought and died 

Slept in their gory graves, 
Nor saw their country crucified 

By cowards and by knaves. 

From North, and East, and West they came, 

A hungry, ravenous horde. 
More blasting than the midnight flame, 

More ruthless than the sword. 

And orphans' sobs and widows' cries 

Resounded through the land, 
And curses on our enemies 

Were heard on every hand. 

Their bayonets held us in the dust — 

Enforced the victor's will ; 
In vain their arts — our stubborn hearts 

Remained unconquered still, 

(93) 



The years rolled by — the Pestilence 

Came like the curse of Fate, 
And deadlier yet than bayonet 

And blinder far than hate. 

It smote the silver hair of age — 

The baby at the breast — 
And blasted with unreasoning rage 

The bravest and the best. 

And clouds of darkness and dismay 
BHghted the Summer's bloom — 

Shut out the splendor of the day, 
And wreathed the South in gloom ; 

When, from the regions whence there came 

The hungry, ravenous horde, 
More blasting than the midnight flame. 

More ruthless than the sword — 

There flowed a stream of gifts untold 

Like manna from above : 
And words far dearer than the gold — 

Of sympathy and love. 

And dying men with glad surprise 
Flushed red on brow and cheek. 

And looked — with fever-smitten eyes — 
The thanks they could not speak. 

And women raised their wasted arms. 

And called on Heaven above 
To shield from sin, and ills, and harms 

The enemies they love. 

(94) 



And hearts that armies could not win, 

Love captured unaware ; 
His strategy was sympathy, 

His weapon was a prayer. 

And still from North and East and West 
The bounteous stream was poured, 

As free as Heaven to man forgiven, 
As liberal as the Lord. 

And orphans' sobs and widows' cries 

Were heard on every hand, 
And blessings on our enemies 

Resounded through the land. 

On every flower-scented gale, 

On every stormy blast, 
The Anthem rose, "God bless our foes — 

They've conquered us at last!" 



(95) 



Cease wringing of your helpless hands, 
And dry your streaming eyes — 

Obedient to the Lord's commands, 
He sailed for Paradise. 

Sailed in a boat of the sunset beams 

Over the blue above, 
Bound for the land of living streams 

In the continent of Love. 

Left this port of sighs and tears, 
To return, oh ! nevermore — 

Left a host of earthly fears 

To laugh on the heavenly shore. 

Sailed with a smile on his guileless lips, 
Away from this earthly sod — 

Sailed away from the world's eclipse 
To live in the light of God. 



(96) 



Heart-curses on that shadow there 

That gUdes upon my sight ; 
Why does it come with its streaming hair, 
And its eyes still bright, with a great despair, 

Blasting the breath of night? 

It creeps about like a hideous thing 

From the ghastly blue of hell, 
And it laughs till all the chambers ring, 
And I turn pale as a coward king 

When he hears his own death-knell. 

I fear you not, though your eyes are bright — 

What care I for the dead? 
Though I entered your room in the hush of night, 
And stabbed your breast till the foamy white 

Of your bosom turned to red. 

I drank the blood of your paramour 

The night that I shed your own ; 
You kissed the lips of a wretched boor — 
You, with the charms of a Pompadour, 

And the grace to sit a throne ! 

Back — back ! and hide that horrid gash 

That gapes on your bosom's white; 
The gleam of your eyes is a crimson flash — 
The thunder roars, I fall in the crash, 
And die in your hated sight! 



(97) 



Q^lft doH^rl at Iraittg 

Beauty dwelleth in the humblest thing! 

The flower blooming in some lonely nook 
Will preach a tranquil sermon to the mind ; 

And in the babbling of the summer brook, 
When baby-waves grow garrulous as age, 

Are heard dim stories of the long ago. 
When fairies were not dead, and elfin-hosts 

Stole out to dance upon the moonlit snow ! 

Beauty is everywhere ! Those who see it not 

Have clouded eyes, hearts fit for mould — 
The warmth of beauty permeates the earth. 

And only sin is drear, and bleak, and cold; 
Men shut their eyes and cry aloud, 

" 'Tis dark as Erebus ; there is no light !" 
And so go groping, mole-like, thro' the earth, 

Shrouded in gloom, where everything is bright. 

There are two ministries: The eyes can see 

Things palpable, and not to be denied; 
The spirit-sight streams on through sun-lit space, 

And floweth heavenward in an endless tide! 
The one can see the shivering stream of light 

The trembling moonshine on some ruin throws, 
The flush of rose leaves and the heart of buds ; 

The other sees the perfume of the rose. 



(98) 



The air is populous with beauty! 

'Twixt the trees and clouds, the earth and sky, 
Float souls of colors, shadows of sunbeams, 

Spirits of dew-drops, that can never die — 
Melodies ecstatic, to which the notes 

Of shepherds, heard in fabled Arcady, 
Are grating discords; airs divine, 

Echoing softly through eternity ! 

Beauty is wisdom purified — 

The sum of life — the total of our breath — 
The satisfier of our spirit yearnings — 

Revealing God without the aid of Death; 
For those who pierce the shadowy mists of earth, 

And forms of beauty in the ether see, 
Have drunk in knowledge of immortal life — 

Beauty in heaven's epitome. 

LOFC. 



(99) 



Have you seen the Japan lilies, 

In all their fire and bloom. 
With their gorgeous crimson leaves 
Flushed with the warmth of the South, 

And their fainting sweet perfume? 

The leaves are redder than blood, 
And the white on the slender slips 

Is like a tropic moonbeam 

Sliding its thread of silver 
Across my true love's lips. 

The darling wears one of these lilies — 
It burns on the snow of her breast : 
And when she looks down, the light of her eyes 
Strikes through the red, making sunset dyes 
Glow on her bosom like eastern skies 
When the sun goes down in the west. 



(lOO) 



"What ho, within! what ho, I say! bring forth 

the richest wine 
That ever throbbed tumultuously the pulses of 

the vine ; 
And let the goblets all be gold, and crusted thick 

with gems, 
That these, my guests, may take the cups for 

kingly diadems. 

"For now, my lords, I parcel out my royalty to 

you; 
And each that sits around this board shall be a 

monarch, too ; 
So, when you drink your fill of wine, lay not the 

goblets down. 
But place them boldly on your heads, and wear 

a kingly crown ! 

"And if there lurk among us all a foe that I 
should dread, 

The crown will grow rebellious, sirs, and topple 
from his head ! 

Be wary, then, O gentlemen ! Now fill your gob- 
lets high, 

And let us drink to Youth and Love — twin sisters 
of the sky!" 

(lOl) 



They quaffed the sunny floods of wine, and then 

stood bravely up, 
And crowned themselves so merrily, each with 

his jeweled cup; 
A single moment thus they stood, when, with a 

ringing sound, 
The goblet that the monarch wore fell glittering 

to the ground. 

" 'Tis true, 'tis true," the King cried out, "I am 

the traitor here ! 
Myself the only living thing that I have cause to 

fear; 
Pour out upon the thirsty sod this soul-destroying 

wine, 
I've been its victim long enough, and now it shall 

be mine ! 

"And you, my noble gentlemen, betake you to 

your rest. 
For ere to-morrow's sun shall sink, with splendor 

in the west, 
I'll lead you forth with stainless plume, to revel 

in the fight, 
Where joy be with the bravest heart, and God 

be with the right !" 



(102) 



My love looked from the lattice, — 
The lattice wreathed with green, — 

And a fairer face in a lovelier frame 
I trow was never seen. 

Mv love looked from the lattice, 

To read the stars in the skies ; 
But I read my fate by the softer light 

That beamed from her azure eyes. 

"I cannot fathom their meaning," she said, 

"Or how they affect my life; 
Or whether they tell of a peaceful lot, 

Or betoken care and strife." 

"O never heed the stars," I said, 
"They have naught to do with thee; 

O turn your eyes away from the skies, 
To shine forever on me." 

A sudden start — a tender glance — 
And she gazed through the lattice bars, 

And softly said, "My fate is there ! 
You must ask the shining stars." 

(103) 



"O the stars," I said, "are well enoug-h 

To deck the skies above; 
But a star more fair than any there 

Is the beautiful star of love." 

But she shook her curls, so I cried to the stars, 
"Shall this maid to me be given?" 

O Love ! O flame ! an answer came, 
And a star shot down from heaven. 

Then a snowy hand was laid in mine. 

And blossoms were plucked from the boughs- 
There was ringing of bells and giving of alms, 
And an interchange of vows, 

A year has passed and the stars still shine, 

But I swear as I look above. 
That a star more fair than any there 

Is the beautiful star of love. 



(104; 



"His honor rooted in dishonor stands 
And faith unfaithful keeps him falsely true." 

— Tennyson. 

My friend is a friend that is rarely seen — 

A man with a dangerous depth of heart; 
For if ever a love nestles down to the bottom, 

Its wings are clipped, it can never depart. 
With a regal mind and a regal soul, 

My friend for years has not been strong: 
Loving where love is a thing to be hid, 

Loving where love is a grievous wrong. 

Eight years back he came from college, 

Hurried to me though the night was late ; 
Said he had loved for five bright years, 

And that the morrow would settle his fate ; 
And I, not doubting my friend would win, — 

What girl could refuse such a man as he ? — 
Gave him my hand with my heart in the palm, 

And begged for a seat at his table for me. 

Drearily, drearily, rained the rain, 

As I sat by the fire, reading my book : 

The door was opened, my friend came in — 
A dire apocalypse shone in his look, 

(los) 



Writhed a tortured smile on his lips — 

Bloodily clammy, and touched with foam — 

And all the horrors of all the earth 

Seemed to have made his face their home. 

Wedded she was a week before ; 

He told me the tale and away he went, 
To bury his heart, if that might be, 

In the far-off lands of the Orient — 
Scarce a year gone, and back he was : 

I looked in his face and saw the pain 
Of one who wrestles with great despair, 

And battles with deadly sin in vain. 

Noble is he in all his life, 

Save in the love he gives and receives : 
His heart has clouded his royal mind; 

That their loves are pure, he firmly beheves. 
For love, like fire, he madly says. 

Purifies all it dwells within. 
Lighting the darkness of the shame. 

And burning the stain from out the sin. 

And so he prays that he may die 

Ere time or change can mar his love. 
Living as faithful to his sin 

As angels do to the God above. 
Save him, O Lord ! from his false, true heart ; 

Dear, I know, he is to Thee, 
Though wrapped in impurity, dreaming it pure, 

And sinfully virtuous, bending the knee. 



(io6) 



O Lover ! O Poet ! sing me a song — 
A song of my eyes and lips — 
Till the rose turns pale with a secret dread 
That my lips can boast of a deeper red, 
And the sun that has lit the world so long 
Shall glance at my eyes and hide his head, 
And own to a fair eclipse. 

O Maiden ! your eyes are very bright 

And your lips are wondrous red ; 

But never a song a poet can sing 

Can make the sun hide his burning ring, 

Or shine with a lesser light ; 

And the rose will flush blood-red in the spring 

And glow when we are dead ! 



(107) 



Wthhtb 

He placed a golden wedding-ring 

Upon her perjured hand — 
To her it seemed a mark of love ; 

To me, a burning brand. 

And the priest spoke out and joined the two, 

For better or for worse; 
But the blessing he said rang in my head 

Like the muttering of a curse. 

And now I walk the ways of life 

With smiling lip and eye — 
A dead hope buried in my heart, 

A phantom hovering by! 

And he can laugh with his gold-bought bride, 

While I must weep and pray ; 
For the self-same fire that warms his heart 

Is burning my life away ! 



(io8) 



The picture's fair, but fairer far 

I ween the lady's face ; 
For Art can but approximate 

To Nature's perfect grace. 

The picture tells of snowy brow 

By auburn hair caressed ; 
The roses on her cheeks evince 

The lily in her breast. 

Her eyes — I cannot tell what hue 
The angels to them brought; 

But what had color still to do 
With feelings and with Thought! 

And Art, fair Nature's youngest child, 
Here shadows forth such grace, 

That though unknown, I can but choose 
To love so fair a face. 

As sunbeams lie upon the earth 
That through the heavens dart, 

So beauty pierces through my eyes 
And rests upon my heart. 



(109) 



You tell me love is sweet, 

But you lie; 
There is a sting 
Hid beneath his downy wing, 

And his feet 
Trample down the human heart. 
Till the burning blood-drops start, 

And you die. 

I will tell you — she was fair. 

Very fair ; 
Her eyes were soft and meek. 
Yet prodigal of light; 

And her hair 
Hung in wavy masses low 
On a brow as pure as snow ; 

And her cheek, 

Soft and white. 
Had been tinged with rosy light 

By the spirit of a sunset 
That had died for love of night ! 
I worshipped — I was weak — 
I lost my self-control — 

I clasped her jeweled hand — 

And — but you cannot understand 
How the waves of feeling roll 
Till they overwhelm the whole; 
How our passions are the daggers. 
Stabbing reckless at the soul. 

(no) 



She is dead — so am I — 

I cannot find her here — 
There's no Hght, or air, or sky, 

Only fear. 
Time has ceased — 'tis Forever, 

We will never meet again — 

All my dark, despairing pain 
Will leave me never, never. 

And she, who cursed me with deceit, 
Even while I kissed her feet, 

Is — can you tell me where? 
She is in some other sphere, 
And it may be she can hear. 
Thrilling wildly on her ear. 

My despair. 

She will shudder in the dark — 

She will crave but for a spark 
To light her suffering soul on the darksome track 
to me: 

But she cannot find me here — 

She must keep within her sphere. 
And shudder on forever in her dark eternity. 



(Ill) 



SIoBt m(h Won 

Why do the violets pale ? 

Why droop the lilies fair? 
A woman has scoffed at purity, 

And her breath is on the air. 

A babe was born on a summer's morn, 

When all the world was gay ; 
But the babe was dead ere the evening fled, 

And a soul had passed away. 

And fiends in hell rang a spirit's knell, 
For they knew their work was done, — 

The mother, wild, had slain her child, 
And a soul was lost and won. 



(112) 



I open wide my treasure box — 
A golden circle greets my eyes : 

Ah me ! No wonder starts the tear, 
No wonder that I sigh. 

For in the boundary of that ring 

Is all the joy of all my life ; 
'Tis \\rha.t is left to me of her 

I hoped to call my wife. 

It could not be and I must tread 
Alone my dark and desert way, 

But yet the anguish has its balm — 
December dreams of May. 

Our names are graven in the gold — 
I wonder if, in hours of glee, 

She sometimes checks her rippling laugh 
To turn a thought on me. 

And picture to her mind the kiss 
That heralded the ring she gave ; 

And ponder if I live and laugh, 
Or slumber in my grave. 

But what the pleasure or the good? 

Why should she weep or even sigh? 
Perhaps she feels the joy to live, 

That I should feel to die. 

I drop the ring and close the lid — 
Would I could so shut out the Past ; 

For why recall so sweet a hope, 
To claim a tear at last? 

8 (113) 



The glory of a radiant day 

Is glistening in the grass; 
The butterflies flit by the rose 

And curtsy as they pass ; 
The jeweled-throated humming birds 

Are quivering in the air, 
While far away the mountains kneel 

In one perpetual prayer. 

A faint breeze blowing from the West 

Came laden with perfume, 
From purple plots of heliotrope 

And orange trees in bloom ; 
And blent as in a dream, I hear 

In this enchanted nook 
The sorrow of the sobbing sea — 

The gladness of the brook. 

High on a limb the mocking-bird, 

Exulting, trips along, 
And flutters into ecstasy 

And floods the fields with song; 
The air with music palpitates 
From mountain cliff to shore, 
The sea alone makes mournful moan, 

"No more ! no more ! no more !" 

(114) 



From alien lands my love comes back 

On her predestined way; 
Her gracious presence glads the earth 

And glorifies the day ; 
No wonder laughs the happy brook — 

Or sobs the jilted sea : 
Across the foam, no more to roam, 

My Own returns to me. 



(IIS) 



Jffatrrr tlyan tlje Utlg 



Oh ! fairer than the lily 

That grows beside the stream, 
And brighter than the vision 

That haunts a poet's dream, 
Was the maiden that I worshipped 

In my manhood's early glow — 
Before the winter of my heart 

Had touched my hair with snow. 

The glances of her love-lit eyes 

Were dearer far to me 
Than the sunlight to the daisies 

That blossom on the lea ; 
The music of her gentle voice 

Made melody so sweet, 
The lark would leave the dappled skies 

To nestle at her feet. 

Oh ! faded is the lily 

And frozen is the stream, 
And vanished is the vision 

That blessed the poet's dream ; 
And not a daisy lifts its face 

From off the barren lea, 
Save one that blooms upon her grave 

To mark the spot for me. 



(ii6) 



(January i, i860.) 

God's hand has planted another year 

In the fruitful soil of Time — 
To the tragic poem of human life 

Is added another rhyme. 
And I sit here in a stranger town, 

Widowed of all the joy 
I used to feel at the glad New Year 

When I was a little boy. 

'Twas only a few brief years ago, 

Telling the days that are dead, 
But it seems to me like a century, 

Counting the hopes that have fled. 
Since my heart, like the gold of Parvaim, 

Was free from all alloy — 
Oh ! brighter than Heaven seems now, was earth. 

When I was a little boy. 

I've wandered, restless as the wind, 

Through many a foreign land, 
And plucked the pleasure buds of earth 

From Clyde to Samarcand; 
But found no flower pure from blight, 

No sweet that did not cloy — 
Oh ! never a canker cursed a bud 

When I wai a little boy. 

C117) 



I've found the wisdom that's born of Pain, 
The sorrow that comes with years ; 

And paid the price that Adam paid 
For knowledge — and for tears; 

But I've lost my faith in Friendship's vow, 

And Love's a broken toy ; — 

I used to trust in Mother — and God, 
When I was a little boy. 

Oh ! sadder than death is the bitter change 

In the trusting heart of youth — 
Better believe in a wholesome lie 

Than forever doubt the truth. 
What care I now for Arthur's fame, 

Or the ten years' siege of Troy? — 
The heroes are myths that I vised to love, 

When I was a little boy. 

'Tis true that memories are mine 

Unutterably bright, 
But like the stars, they shine above. 

And only prove 'tis night ; 
And the darkness is quick with tempting fiends 

Luring to destroy — 
I used to live in the light of God, 

When I was a little boy. 

It may be true, and I hope it is. 

That death will end the pain ; 
That on the shores of another world 

I'll be a child again, 
And feel, with fullest Love and Faith, 

The olden, golden joy, 
That came of my trust in Mother — and God, 

When I was a little boy. 

(ii8) 



Love aimed at me a shining dart 

With which to pierce my quivering heart, 

But I escaped his careless aim, 

And still my heart remained the same. 

The little god another drew, 

But from the mark away it flew ; 

Another and another sent, 

Until his arrows all were spent — 

While I was laughing at the arts 

By which I 'scaped his cruel darts. 

The wily god then set a trap 

And caught me by a strange mishap. 

He made a net of hopes and fears, 

And twined it round with smiles and tears, 

And placed within it as a prize 

The loving light of Clara's eyes. 

I saw the bait so tempting shine, 

And thought to make the illusion mine, 

And heedless of the dangers there 

I thoughtless rushed into the snare; 

The hopes and fears then clasped me tight, 

But far above me gleamed the light, 

And O, my heart beat quick to see 

It shone on every one but me. 

I writhed, and in an angry pet 

I strove to break the treacherous net, 

But all in vain : it held me fast, 

And I a captive am at last. 



(119) 



UtttU (Ulara 

She is sweeter than the violets 

That blow in hidden places ; 
And brighter, too. than star or dew, 

More graceful than the graces. 
I cannot doubt she came to me 

To be my special teacher, 
And show me truths I failed to learn 

From any earthly preacher. 

I care no more for musty tomes, 

The relics of the ages — 
Her wisdom, fresh from God, exceeds 

The wisdom of the Sages. 
The secret hidden from our eyes 

Her finer sense discloses, 
Translates the song the sky-lark sings 

And reads the heart of roses. 

For her the Fairies come and go, 

Obedient to her wishes — 
And whisper of the hidden haunts 

Of birds and beasts and fishes. 
She hears the murmur of the Elves 

From forest — glades and mountains- 
Communes with Dryads in the trees, 

And Naiads in the fountains. 

(120) 



But thrice the silver orange buds 

Have burst in starry flowers, 
Since from the Heavenly Land she came 

To bless this home of ours. 
The light the Father's presence lent 

Still lingers on her features — 
The stainless glow by which we know 

His unpolluted creatures. 

Her laughter soft as rippling rills 

Dispels my present sorrow — 
Her fearless glance of innocence 

Gives courage for the morrow. 
The power with which she sways my life 

Is holy and inherent — 
Reverses facts — makes me the child, 

And her the guiding parent. 



(121) 



"Parrot to sell !" cried the sailorman, 

And held up the battered cage ; 
His eyes were bright and his hands were coarse, 
And he spoke in a tone that was strained and 

hoarse, 
As clogged with the dregs of great remorse, 

Or unrelenting rage. 

I paid the price and the sailor sped ; 

And this is what befell : 
I hung the bird at the side of my bed, 
And rubbed his beak and scratched his head ; 
In voice like the sailor's voice, he said, 

"My anchor is sunk in hell !" 

A single moment the bird was still. 

And me he solemnly eyed ; 
Then gave a shriek so loud and shrill, 
It seemed with its agonizing thrill 
A dart of Death from the parrot's bill, 

And "Spare me, spare me !" cried. 

That piercing cry of a parting life 

Thro' all my being ran, — 
And told a tale of bitter strife — 
A jealous fool — a pleading wife — 
A vengeful thrust — a crimson knife — 

And a wandering sailorman. 

(122) 



And I think that clearly I can see, 

And truthfully can tell, 
Why the bright-eyed man with hands so coarse 
Should speak in a tone of rage or remorse, 
And the parrot cry in a voice as hoarse, 

"My anchor is sunk in hell !" 



(123) 



At dalnraton 

(1865.) 

We parted, Sweet, some weeks ago 

In pleasant summer weather — 
You blamed the Fates that you and I 

Could not remain together. 
"Take this," — my love, you gave a kiss, — 

"Let not this parting vex us ; 
I'll win Papa's consent at home 

And you'll win wealth in Texas." 

So swelling up with love and hope, 

I went off like a rocket ; 
Your kiss still moist upon my lips. 

Your likeness in my pocket. 
I dreamed of you both day and night 

Upon my lonely journey, 
And gazed each passing hour upon 

That picture made by Gurney. 

I traveled many a weary day 

By land as well as water ; 
"Tho' sore dismayed thro' storm and shade" 

(Vide Lord Ullin's daughter), 
I pushed ahead and reached at length 

This famous Island City. 
I looked about but could not find 

That Temple — more's the pity ! 

(124) 



That Temple — Fame's you know — of which 

We read in song and story, 
And where you bade me write my name 

Among the sons of Glory. 
"O carve it, love," you proudly said, 

"By Shakespeare and by Dante" — 
The name is carved, but oh ! 'tis nailed 

Upon a wooden shanty. 

And underneath is writ, that I, 

Your lover and your poet 
('Tis painted on a six-foot sign. 

That all the world may know it), 
Will sell for cash (the thing will out — 

It is, indeed, of no use 
That I shall try to hide the fact) 

All kinds of Western Produce. 

I know, my love, you'll feel quite shocked, 

But why should this thing fret us? 
We'll dream the syrup that I sell 

Is honey from Hymettus — 
The flours I offer to the trade 

We'll claim as spotless flowers, 
That came, not from St. Louis mills, 

But from Parnassian bowers. 

The bacon piled up in the store 

(Extracted all the bone is) 
We'll say was made from that rude boar 

That slew the fair Adonis. 
The whiskey — "Guzzler's Best" — I ship 

Away from here to Melicon, 
Was drawn — we'll fancy so at least — 

From out the springs of Helicon. 

(125) 



Enough ! enough ! I give it up ! 

'Tis literary treason, 
And violates the stainless Nine 

As well as rhyme and reason, 
To mingle Grocery men among 

The brilliant literati, 
And use Parnassian flowers to deck 

Fat hogs from Cincinnati. 

The truth is, love, this age of ours 

Indignantly refuses 
To take in payment of our debts 

The products of the Muses : 
'Twould seize upon the Graces Three 

And put the jades to ginning — 
The Fates it tolerates, because 

The hags are always spinning. 

And so lest I be deemed a drone, 

And be by men forsaken, 
I hide my harp from prying eyes 

And deal in Pork and Bacon ; 
I talk with eager business men, 

Of trade and current prices, 
Of Egypt, too — the cotton there — 

But not a word of Isis. 

'Tis twelve o'clock, I must to bed — 

Adieu, my blue-eyed blessing ! 
Think not because I deal in Pork 

My love's not worth possessing; 
Sleep softly — deep within my heart, 

Despite the scoffer's scorning, 
I'll keep a place for Poesy 

And dream of you till morning. 

(126) 



Life prisoners we, from our earliest breath 

Shut out from our great estate — 
No way of escape, but the way of Death ; 

No chance to juggle with Fate. 
Two gaolers guard our prison bounds, 

Unwearied day and night — 
One viewless, goes his ceaseless rounds; 

One steadfast, stays in sight. 

But beyond our cramping prison-wall 

And beyond our gaolers' ken, 
There's a home in the heart of the gracious All 

For the mourning sons of men ; 
And the court we pay to the silent twain 

Is waste of weary breath — 
No words can loosen the gaolers' chain 

Save the stern command of Death. 

They both from immemorial age 

Their silent vigils keep, 
Tho' we catch a glimpse of our heritage 

Thro' the open door of Sleep ; 
But captives all from the hour of birth 

Are the helpless human race — 
Our prison home is the whirling Earth ; 

Our gaolers, Time and Space. 



(127) 



Mnrhn Bant 

(Nicaragua.) 

There at the window, glowing with love, 
And bright as the evening star, 

Anita hearkened — innocent dove — 
To Pietro's light guitar. 

He sang a song so sweet and clear, 

So full of Nature's grace. 
The mocking-bird thought a rival near. 

And ruffling flew at his face. 

A shadow crept thro' the orange trees, 

A flash of steel — a groan — 
A frantic shriek on the midnight breeze — 

And silence reigned alone. 

With a cross at his head, Pietro bides — 

Anita tears her hair 
In a maniac's cell : the slayer hides — 

In his swamp-encircled lair ; 

While high in the dark magnolia tree. 
Like a feathered imp in the sun, 

The mocking-bird tells with frantic glee 
Of midnight murder done. 



(128) 



Down in the valley stealeth 

A silver stream along ; 
And as it glideth onward 

It rippleth into song. 

It singeth a mournful ditt)^ 
Of the time that used to be, 

Ere it left the verdant mountain 
To flow to the dreary sea ; 

Ere it left the bright-eyed blossoms 
That grow on the mountain height, 

To wander down the valley 

'Mid the ghostly shadows of night ; 

Ere the dove that flew o'er its bosom, 
White as the drifted snow, 

Had changed to the ghostly raven 
In the gloom of the valley below. 

The stream is melancholy, 
And sings of what used to be. 

But ere the song is ended 
It is lost in the dreary sea. 



(129) 



®0 

The Spring-time flowers given by thee 

Have yet another grace 
Than that of Nature's — they recall 

Thy tender, April face. 

The incense they to Heaven yield 

Is offered up as free 
And pure and fresh as is the love 

I tender, sweet, to thee. 

And while upon the flowers I gaze, 

In truth I see them not — 
'Tis thou, not they, that charms my eyes 

And claims my every thought. 

I know when they have drooped and died 

Thou still will blooming be : 
The beauty dead, the sweetness fled, 

Lives ever, love, in thee ! 



(130) 



O, who can tell what mystery 
Deep in the heart of flowers lie ? 
Perhaps beneath their leaves may steal 
The passion and the pains we feel. 
The tender blushes of the rose 
May some forbidden love disclose; 
And in the secret of her leaves 
Perchance o'er broken vows she grieves ; 
And when the morrow steals her breath, 
May she not feel the pangs of death? 
And when upon the ground she lies 
Perhaps she blossoms in the skies, 
A radiant rose that never dies. 



(131) 



Weep ! Weep ! Weep ! 

And tear your yellow hair ; 
Plough with your nails your hollow breast 

And writhe in your despair ; 
You have broken the goblet of Faith, 

And its sacramental wine 
Is a crimson curse upon your soul 

That offends the eye Divine. 

Weep ! Weep ! Weep ! 

You are staggering under a frown ; 
The illicit love that sits on your heart 

Is weighing your life-blood down. 
You have broken a holy vow 

Made in the face of God, 
And laughed to scorn the Grace of Him 

Who the burning ploughshare trod. 

Weep ! Weep ! Weep ! 

For a hell is in your soul ; 
But your tears can never quench the fire, 

Nor all the oceans that roll 
Can ever cool the heat at your heart 

Or quiet your throbbing head, 
Tho' you played the wanton with the waves 

And laid in their briny bed. 

(132) 



Weep ! Weep ! Weep ! 

Ho! where are your jewels now? 
Can they hide the brand Dishonor had left 

Glaring upon your brow? 
You bartered your soul for gems, 

Your honor you basely sold, 
But the fire that burns in your quivering heart 

Would melt the coveted gold. 

Weep ! Weep ! Weep ! 

You are yoked to Fear and Death ; 
Living, you hear the voice of Hate, 

A curse with every breath — 
And dying, the fiends will mock you 

On the couch where you shuddering lie, 
And torture your soul with hellish mirth 

While they wait for you to die. 



(133) 



The crowning prize men seek, — I sought; 
My joys I gave away : my pain I bought, 
Paying for sorrow with the coin of thought. 

At last triumphant, all my strivings cease — 
I grasp, in death, the spirit's Golden Fleece, 
And life is crowned with everlasting Peace. 



(134) 



5[J|f iCtlg of Mmtt ffir^ 

Out of the church a motley throng, 

In rustic finery clad, 
Came trooping along with jest and song, 

And faces merry and glad. 

The Padre that morn had joined the two, 

The pride of the young and gay — 
Manuel, the patriot, tried and true. 

And the Lily of Monte Rey. 

A clatter of hoofs, — a rattle of swords, — 

And riding with loosened rein, 
A ribald troop of the vengeful hordes 

That follow the flag of Spain, 

Came sweeping down on the frightened crowd, 

Like vultures fierce and wild ; 
And hacked and thrust with curses loud. 

At man and woman and child. 

And Manuel fell with cloven head — 

But the lovers were not to part, 
For Inez's wedding robe was red 

With the blood of her virgin heart. 

And side by side in a double grave, 

In their gory bridal array. 
Sleep Manuel, the patriot brave. 

And the Lily of Monte Rey ! 



(135) 



QHje If at?n ©rark 

For sixty years I have trod the path 

In storm and shine; 

I know it well — 
But where it endeth, peace or wrath, 

Heaven or hell, 

None can divine, 

No guide posts tell : 
But this I know, bright eyes grow dim and wet 
For vanished hopes, and every turn's beset 
By a sad spectre men have named Regret. 



(136) 



11% N0t 

The daffodils 

Dance on the hills 
And curtsy to the sun. 

Live but a day, 

Yet seem to say: 
"My Lord, Thy will be done !" 

Then why not I, 

Not born to die, 
More vital than the sun, 

Enjoy each day. 

And trusting say : 
"Dear Lord, Thy will be done?" 



(137) 



Anottgma 

The brightest crown that Woman wears 

Is not upon her brow — 
The purity that sanctifies, 

She cannot boast of now ; 
But tender traits of womanhood 

Which never can depart 
Are born of loving words and deeds 

Conceived within her heart. 

Why should we then with vandal hands 

Deface a ruined shrine? 
Or strip from off the altar-stone 

The tendrils of the vine? 
Better permit the pitying leaves 

To hide the sad decay ; 
Perchance 'twill grow a beauteous thing 

When Time has passed away. 

But ah ! the world will never heed 

The warning of our Lord, 
"Judge not lest ye be judged," He said 

Unto the wondering horde ; 
No mercy will it show to those 

Of innocence bereft ; 
But Christ defying, stone to death 

Whatever good is left. 



(158) 



up with the banner of the Free ! 

Its stars and stripes unfurl, 
And let the battle-beauty blaze 

Above a startled world. 
Amid the flags of other lands, 

Triumphant in the sun, 
It guards beneath its ample folds 

The Freedom it has won. 

That flag with constellated stars 

Shines ever in the van ! 
And, like the rainbow in the storm, 

Presages peace to man ; 
For still amid the cannon's roar 

It sanctifies the fight, 
And flames along the battle-line 

The emblem of the Right. 

It seeks no conquests, knows no fear, 

Cares not for pomp or state ; 
As pliant as the atmosphere — 

As resolute as Fate. 
Where'er it floats, on land or sea, 

No stain its honor mars. 
And freedom smiles, her fate secure 

Beneath its steadfast stars. 



(139) 



Slyat'H All 

Lilies and roses ! 
Lilies and roses ! 

Man in his youth — 

In the sunlight of truth, 
When heaven uncloses — 

With his eyes on the skies 

Dreamily lies 
On his lilies and roses. 

Nettles and thorns ! 
Nettles and thorns ! 

Man in his manhood 
Sorrows and mourns — 

Girt with regrets 
He rages and scorns — 

Tosses and frets 
On his nettles and thorns. 

In the dark earth at last I 
The book of the past 

Fate silently closes. 
No longer he mourns — 

No longer he frets — 
Nothing he scorns, 

Nothing regrets ; 

But dreamless reposes 
Under nettles and thorns — 

Under lilies and roses ! 



(140) 



POEMS RELATING TO THE WAR WITH 
SPAIN. 



Ar0 Wt (f^otns to 3Ft3i|t 

Are we really at war ? Are we going to fight ? 
Or argue about it from morning to night ? 
Is it simply a matter of derision and scoff? 
The cannons are loaded, why don't they go off? 

Do you think if Paul Jones were sailing the sea, 
Or the army was headed by Grant or by Lee, 
We would hear all this talk of a "peaceful block- 
ade"— 
Or waiting for Famine to come to our aid? 

What's the matter with Miles ? We know he will 

fight. 
'Tis the blade, not the scabbard, should gladden 

our sight. 
The warhorse is curbed when his head should be 

free, 
And a chain on the land holds our ships on the 
sea. 

(141) 



Oh, the "peaceful blockade" and the "bloodless 

campaign" 
May serve to beleaguer the "castles in Spain," 
But the Morro still spits at our ships from afar 
And jeers at the phantom the Yankees call war. 

Burst the chains of the warships ! Give Sampson 

his way ! 
Let "Fighting Joe's" blade see the light of the 

day, 
And the flag of "Free Cuba" with "Glory" shall 

blend — 
The hotter the fight the sooner the end. 



(142) 



Song. 

A song of the Flag and a song of the Free ! 
To be sung from the mountains clear down to the 

sea; 
From the cliffs of Old Maine to the Gulf's level 

shore 
Let the starry Flag flutter — the black cannons 

roar ! 
For the hearts of the millions are throbbing as 

one, 
In the light of "Old Glory"— our National Sun ! 

Chorus. 

For there's nothing in song or in story, 
There's nothing on land or on sea 

That can vie with the fame of "Old Glory," 
The flag of the Fearless and Free. 

The stars had their birth when our freedom be- 
gun: 

Tho' many be blazing, their light is as one. 

The red stripes are dyed with the blood that was 
shed. 

That the living forever should honor the dead ! 

And the white ones are pure as the liberty won 

'Neath the folds of "Old Glory"— our National 
Sun! 

[Chorus.] 

(143) 



And whether it floats o'er the land or the main 
In flaunting its folds in defiance of Spain, 
Its splendor will never depart from the Stars 
While there's blood in the veins of our soldiers 

and tars ! 
And the people shall see when the battle is done, 
"Old Glory" still blazing — our National Sun. 

[Chorus.] 



(144) 



f 0B or 3No 

Are women being starved to death on Cuba's 

tropic shore? 
Are babies being shot and stabbed, left weltering 

in their gore? 
Are we to stay the assassin's hand, or let the 

pirate go? 
Are we not men, or only "pigs?" Just answer 

yes or no. 

Shall we avenge our sailor lads who perished on 

the Maine, 
Or keep our vessels on the sea to be police for 

Spain ? 
Before we raise a righteous hand to smite the 

dastard foe. 
Shall we await the "Powers'" consent? Just 

answer yes or no. 

Why dally longer, doubting before the mocking 
world ? 

Call out for Freedom's volunteers — let "Glory" 
be unfurled ! 

Throw open wide the throttles, and let our war- 
ships go, 

And tell the earth in thunder tones our nation's 
yes or no. 



10 (145) 



At llaat 

At last our banners brave the breeze — our war- 
ships split the sea, 

Proclaiming to a waiting world that Cuba shall 
be free. 

We may be rude, we are not used to curving of 
the back ; 

We may be slow, but when we move there is no 
backward track. 

The shrieks of murdered women were sounding 
in our ears ; 

The moans of famished children were blent with 
Spanish jeers. 

The taunts that we were "Yankee pigs," too das- 
tardly to fight, 

We bore with smiling patience, reliant in our 
might. 

At last the crowning insult came, the blasting of 

the Maine; 
The verdict is recorded, the act was thine, O 

Spain ! 
And now we bare the avenging arm and draw the 

righteous sword. 
'Tis ours to render justice — be mercy Thine, O 

Lord. 



(146) 



In the days when the stars and the bars were up- 
Ufted, 
And brothers in blood were opposed, man to 
man, 
The sword of Joe Wheeler was seen to be flash- 
ing, 
The foremost of all who were crowding the 

van. 

For thirty long years it has slept in its scabbard. 

Rusting in peace with the old suit of gray ; 
But the Spaniards have flaunted defiance to 
"Glory," 
And "Fighting Joe" Wheeler's once more in 
the fray. 

We are sons of the men who with Grant and with 
Lee 
Fixed the eyes of the world on the Gray and 
the Blue; 
They were enemies then, we are sworn brothers 
now. 
And we know what our fathers have done we 
can do. 

(147) 



So, three cheers for Grant, boys, and three cheers 
for Lee, 
Their glorified spirits are with us to-day ; 
And we'll soon have the flag of free Cuba un- 
furled. 
With "Fighting Joe" Wheeler in front of the 
fray. 

He is back from the war and fresh laurels are 
twining 
With those he has won in the days that are 
passed ; 
While honor and valor are dear to the nation 

His name will be cherished, his glory will last. 
For whether in front of his dare-devils charging, 
Or smoothing the brow of a death-stricken 
man, 
Where a foe's to be vanquished, a friend to be 
aided. 
There "Fighting Joe" Wheeler is found in the 
van. 



(148) 



POEMS 
RELATING TO THE CONFEDERACY. 



QIIl? ^am 0tar Jlag 

(1861.) 

Up with the Lone Star Banner! 

Its hues are still as bright 
As when its glories braved the breeze 

At San Jacinto's fight; 
Its fluttering folds in triumph waved 

O'er many a gory brow, 
The freedom that was conquered then 

Will not be yielded now. 

The honor of that Lone Star Flag 

That flouts the blue above 
Is held as dear by Texan hearts 

As that of her they love. 
And not a stain shall mar its hues 

While yet a man remains 
To save this flower-girdled land 

From ignominious chains. 

That banner with the Single Star 

Is Freedom's favored sign — 
Beneath its unpolluted folds 

Her brightest glories shine ; 
And in the whirlwind and the storm, 

Amid the crash and jar. 
She fears no foe while floats aloft 

That Solitary Star. 

(149) 



Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, 
Nor in the rush upon the Vandal foe, 
Did kingly Death with his resistless might 
Lay the Great Leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town: 
When all the storm was hush'd, the trusty oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, 
Recalling all his grand, heroic deeds : 
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land 
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth ; 
But broke the House of Bondage with his hand — 
The Moses of the South. 

O Gracious God ! not gainless is the loss — 
A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown; 
And while his country staggers with the Cross 
He rises with the Crown. 



(150) 



9n (^mnp 

A pleasant thing it is, reclining in my tent 
(Now dinner's done and nothing left to do 

But watch with languid eyes the firmament, 
And puff my meerschaum at the dreamy blue), 

To play the wizard with the dear, dead days, 
And call them from their violet-scented tomb; 

To light my heart with resurrected rays 
And beautify it with remembered bloom. 

And once again those tender, twilight eyes 
Deep with devotion, — such as long ago 

Touched Raphael's heart with hints of Paradise 
And soothed the soul of Michael Angelo, — 

Shine out from that dim past which stricken 
hearts 

Looked to for balm to ease them of their pain ; 
And lo! beneath their deep enamored darts 

My buried joys are touched to life again. 

I feel the pressure of the warm red mouth. 

Rippling my soul with fragrant breaths of 
bliss — 

While prodigal of sweetness as the South, 

Her lips speak love between each honeyed kiss. 

(151) 



And while I muse and in my heart rejoice, 
Amid the glory of her golden hair, 

There breaks upon my ear a sudden voice, 
Of "Maryland ! Stonewall Jackson's there." 

From buried Then to the triumphant Now 
My soul leaps back — and starting up, I see 

A group of men with gladness on each brow, 
And in their eyes the pride of victory. 

"The Lord again has battled for the right," 
We said, while listening to the stirring tale 

Of dashing valor and victorious fight 
In Shenandoah's memorable vale. 

And 'mid the bumpers we rejoicing drink 

"To Stonewall Jackson and his fierce brigade," 

But scanty time, I ween, is left to think 
Of sunny tresses and of star-eyed maid. 

So, with a sigh, I fold within my heart 
These tender memories — rose-leaves of the Past ; 
Perchance to find, when soul and body part, 
The full fruition of mv dreams at last ! 



(152) 



Sil? lExtorttoit^r 

Gold is, in its last analysis, the sweat of the poor 
and the blood of the brave. — Joseph Bonaparte. 

The thunder of cannon is heard from afar, 
And the people are rushing in haste to the war. 
They burn with the fire that patriots feel 
And are baring their breasts to the shot and the 

steel ; 
They battle for Liberty, Honor, and Life, 
For homestead, for sister, for mother, for wife : 
He heeds not the tumult, he seeks but to save 
The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave. 

O sweet to his ears is the click of the gold, 
Tho' muffled by blood that encrimsons the mold ; 
And dear to his sight is the gold-dust, I ween, 
Tho' the tears of the orphan have tarnished its 

sheen. 
His religion is based on Extortion and Greed, 
With Mammon its God and Plunder its Creed : 
His anchor of Hope is sunk in the wave 
Of the sweat of the poor and the blood of the 

brave. 

Tho' Famine should stalk like a ghost thro' the 

land 
And women fall faint at the touch of his hand, 
Tho' children with tears in their suppliant eyes 
Should startle the air with their famishing cries, 
Tho' they toil till the blood oozes forth with the 

sweat, 
The God which he worships he cannot forget : 
Still heaping his shrine as he sinks to the grave. 
With the sweat of the poor and the blood of the 

brave. 

(153) 



First in the fight, and first in the arms 
Of the white-winged angels of glory ; 

With the hearts of the South at the feet of God, 
And his wounds to tell the story. 

For the blood that flowed from his hero heart, 
On the spot where he nobly perished. 

Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament 
In the holy cause he cherished. 

In heaven a home with the brave and blessed, 

And for his soul's sustaining 
The apocalyptic eyes of Christ, 

And nothing on earth remaining, 

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, 

A name in song and story, 
And fame to shout with her brazen voice, 

''Died on the field of Glory!" 



(154) 



Wide staring eyes that could not see — 

A broken sword in the grass — 
And the squirrel dodged behind the tree 

And waited for me to pass : 

But I stayed to close the stiffening lids 

Of my dead friend lying there, 
And cut from his brow with my sabre's edge 

A clotted lock of hair. 

One-half I gave to his mother dear, 

And hastened from her door 
To his promised wife — but I came too late — 

She was wedded the day before. 

Perhaps the squirrel that dodged my sight 

Was as fit to judge as I, 
Whether fortune favored my faithful friend 

When he fell in the grass to die. 



(155) 



Palk 

A flash from the edge of a hostile trench, 

A puff of smoke, a roar — 
Whose echo shall roll from the Kenesaw hills 

To the farthermost Christian shore, 
Proclaims to the world that the warrior priest 

Will battle for right no more. 

And that for a Cause which is sanctified 
By the blood of martyrs unknown — 

A Cause for which they gave their lives 
And for which he gave his own, 

He kneels a meek ambassador 

At the foot of the Father's Throne. 

And up in the courts of another world 

That angels alone have trod, 
He lives, away from the din and strife 

Of this blood-besprinkled sod — 
Crowned with the amaranthine wreath 

That is worn by the blest of God. 



(156) 



(§nt ^l}xp 

All aboard for the port of the Free ! 

And every man sprang aboard 
Who had any hope in the days to be 

Or any faith in the Lord. 

We cut her loose from the hulk where she lay, 

And started her out to sea, 
With never a chart of the perilous way 

That leads to the port of the Free, 

For three long years she has struggled and tossed 

On the foam of the fiery sea. 
And many a gallant sailor lost 

On the way to the port of the Free. 

She has felt the force of many a blow — 

She has struck on many a rock — 
But she plunges on as the echoes do 

After the thunder shock. 

We give no heed to crash and jar — 

We fear not wave or wind — 
Our eyes are fixed on a beacon star, 

With never a look behind; 

For better to sink in the surging sea 

On our trackless, perilous way, 
Than die of a moral leprosy 

Chained to the hulk where we lay. 

"But we yet shall reach the port of the Free," 

Cries every man aboard. 
Who has any hope in the days to be 

Or any faith in the Lord. 

(157) 



Four stormy years we saw it gleam, 
A people's hope — and then refurled, 
Even while its glory was the theme 
Of half the world. 

A beacon that with streaming ray 
Dazzled a struggling Nation's sight — 
Seeming a pillar of cloud by day, 
Of fire by night. 

They jeer who trembled as it hung, 
Comet-like blazoning the sky — 
And heroes, such as Homer sung. 
Followed it to die. 

It fell — but stainless as it rose, 
Martyred, like Stephen, in the strife — 
Passing, like him, girdled with foes, 
From Death to Life. 

Fame's trophy ! Sanctified with tears — 
Planted forever at her portal ; 
Folded, true : What then ? Four short years 
Made it immortal ! 



(158) 



N, 



Mtttmnts at % Hup and dra^ 

(The following poem was read at the celebration of 
the second anniversary of the Confederate Veterans' 
Association at Los Angeles, ' September 25, 1897.) 

We are gathered here a feeble few 

Of those who wore the gray — 
The larger and the better part 

Have mingled with the clay: 
Yet not so lost but now and then 

Through dimming mist we see 
The deadly calm of Stonewall's face, 

The lion-front of Lee. 

The men who followed where they led 

Are scattered far and wide — 
In every valley of the South, 

On every mountain side. 
The earth is hallowed by the blood 

Of those who, in the van, 
Gave up their lives for what they deemed 

The sacred rights of man. 

And you who faced the boys in blue 

(When like a storm they rose), 
And played with Life and laughed at Death 

Among such stalwart foes, 
Need never cast your eyes to earth 

Or bow your heads with shame — 
Though Fortune frown, your names are down 

Upon the Roll of Fame. 

(159) 



The flag you followed in the fight 

Will never float again — 
Thank God it sunk to endless rest 

Without a blot or stain! 
And in its place "Old Glory" 'rose 

With all its stars restored; 
And smiling Peace, with rapture, raised 

A pean to the Lord. 

We love both flags — let smiles and tears 

Together hold their sway; 
One won our hearts in days agone — 

One owns our love to-day. 
We claim them both with all their wealth 

Of honor and of fame — 
One lives, triumphant, in the sun ; 

And one, a hallowed name. 

A few short years and "Yank" and "Reb," 

Beneath their native sod, 
Will wait until the Judgment Day 

The calling voice of God — 
The Great Commander's smile will beam 

On that Enrollment Day, 
Alike on him who wore the blue 

And him who wore the gray. 



(i6o) 



As even a tiny shell recalls 
The presence of the sea, 

So gazing on this Cross of bronze 
The Past recurs to me. 



I see the Stars and Bars unfurled, 

And like a meteor rise 
To flash upon the startled world, 

A wonder in the skies. 

I see the gathering of the hosts. 
As like a flood they come — 

I hear the shrieking of the fife. 
The growling of the drum. 

I see the tattered Flag afloat 
Above the flaming line — 

Its ragged folds, to dying eyes, 
A token and a sign. 

I see the charging hosts advance- 

I see the slow retreat — 
I hear the shouts of victory — 

The curses of defeat. 

I see the grass of many fields 
With crimson life-blood wet — 

I see the dauntless eyes ablaze 
Above the bayonet. 

II (i6x) 



I hear the crashing of the shells 

In Chicamaugua's pines — 
I hear the fierce defiant yells 

Ring down the waiting lines. 

I hear the voices of the dead — 
Of comrades tried and true — 

I see the pallid lips of those 
Who died for me and you. 

With back to earth, wherever raged 
The battle's deadliest brunt, 

I see the men I loved — thank God, 
With all their wounds in front. 

The many varied scenes of war 

Upon my vision rise — 
I hear the widow's piteous wail, 

I hear the orphan's cries. 

I see the Stars and Bars refurled. 

Unstained in Glory's hand. 
And Peace once more her wings unfold 

Above a stricken land. 

All this and more, this little Cross 
Recalls to heart and brain — 

Beneath its mystic influence 
The dead Past lives again. 

And friends who take a parting look 

When I am laid to rest, 
Will see, beside the Cross of Christ, 

This Cross upon my breast. 

(162) 



MAY 7 ^yt^ti 



